


Touch

by elzebrook



Series: Steve Rogers likes libraries [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Long, PTSD, Romance, Seriously this is novel length
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:48:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 75,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzebrook/pseuds/elzebrook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Captain America met her, it was for about thirty seconds at one of Tony's interminable charity balls, and she was just another blurred face in a line of blurred faces to be smiled at. The first time Steve Rogers met her, it was in a library. Steve/OC. COMPLETE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Captain America met her, it was for about thirty seconds at one of Tony’s interminable charity balls, and she was just another Stark Industries employee, another blurred face in a line of blurred faces to be smiled at.

The first time Steve Rogers met her, it was in a library.                                         

Steve liked libraries, which was odd, because even before the army, he’d never been much of a reader. But now they were a quiet haven, the sight of books calming in the face of all the rampant machinery and tech in his life, especially since he moved into Stark Tower.

But he was in this library on a quest.

This quest had started out, as most of them did, with a reference totally lost on, or misunderstood by, the Captain. Natasha had made some annoyed remark about technology unnecessarily taking over tasks as one of Tony’s little floor cleaning robots bumped into her ankle for the fifth time, and Clint had broken out some quote about hair combing and shoe tying machines, which set Tony off onto a lecture about the book it seemed to be from (Tony was surprisingly literate sometimes), but failed to mention the title, the author or explain what the book was actually about.

When Tony finally wound down, Steve turned to Clint, an expression of confusion mixed with mute appeal on his face. He had discovered this particular expression often elicited more useful information than an outright question. Questions tended to be answered with teasing and more remarks on The Education of Captain America, as it had come to be called, often in a somewhat mocking tone of voice by the team, which Steve felt was slightly unfair. It wasn’t his fault he’d been frozen and missed out on most of a century.

“It’s a book, Cap.” said Clint.

“I figured out that much,” said Steve. “I’m not that hopeless.”

“It’s a collection of short stories by Ray Bradbury. Science fiction. It’s called _The Illustrated Man_. It’s good. You should probably read it.”

Steve turned to Tony.

“Is there a bookstore nearby?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “I haven’t set foot in a bookstore since 1998. You do know JARVIS can just bring up any book you want, right? And read it to you in a pleasing British accent, if you like.”

“I like actual books,” said Steve. “They’re familiar.”

“If you like books that much, you don’t have to go anywhere. I’ve got a whole floor of them.”

Steve looked at Tony in amazement.

“You have books?” he asked incredulously. “A whole floor of books?”

“The word is library,” said Tony. “And yes, Stark Tower has library. What kind of monument to intellect is complete without a library?”

“I still can’t get over that,” said Natasha to Tony. “You who have the latest phone every two weeks and regularly go on rants about obsolete technology when faced with a toaster.”

“The original collection was my mother’s” said Tony, with dignity. He turned to Steve. “It’s the fourth floor. The librarian will give you a tour and help you find whatever you want.”

“I think I remember the Dewey Decimal system, thanks” said Cap. The other three looked at each other. Clint appeared to be trying not to laugh.

“How are you with Library of Congress?” asked Tony.

Steve just looked at him levelly for a moment, turned and left with as much dignity as possible, ignoring the laughter that followed him down the hall and into the elevator, where he asked JARVIS for the fourth floor.

 

Which brought him to the library. Where he is now. Where he is sure he came for a reason, possibly about a book, since this is in fact the library, except he can’t quite remember because he saw the girl.

She must be the librarian. She was behind a desk and looked like every stereotype of a librarian, complete the glasses, the knee length skirt, sensible shoes, and blonde hair twisted into a severe bun. But she also looked like the kind of girl Steve used to dream about, the smiling girls in their pretty summer dresses and t-strap pumps, the girls whose smiles were never for him until the war, when he had no time for girls or smiles.

He walked up to the desk, intending to ask about the book whose name or author he can’t remember, but she’s a librarian and it’s her job to know about books, right?

She was staring at a computer, but she looked up at his arrival and smiled. At him. Which isn’t actually a rare occurrence these days, so he’s not as fazed by it as he would’ve been.

“Ah, Captain Rogers,” she said. “Tony let me know you were coming down for a book, but he didn’t mention which one.”

“Yes.” said Steve. “A book. It was a science fiction book. I’m afraid I can’t remember which one it was now.”

  
“I don’t blame you. I know that elevator ride always rattles my brain,” said the librarian. “It doesn’t matter. If we can’t remember which sci-fi book you’re after I’ll just send you back with a lot of them.”

She came around the desk. “Follow me, I’ll show you where the sci-fi section is,” she said, and set off. Steve caught up with her in a few strides.

“Thank you, Miss...uh.” She turned.

“Oh I’m terribly sorry. Sophia Carbonell. But you can call me Sophie, everyone else does. We’ve actually met before, but it was for about half a minute at one of Tony’s horrible parties, so I wouldn’t expect you to remember.”

“Miss Carbonell,” Steve repeated. She blinked up at him from behind her glasses, amused. Her eyes were green, Steve realized. “I’m not...everybody else,” he said.

She smiled again. “Yes, I can see that.” She turned and started walking, adding “Sci-fi’s this way” over her shoulder.

 

Steve followed her through the shelves, feeling mildly bewildered. The bewilderment only increased as she stopped in front of what could only be described as a wall of books. The books spanned from the floor to the ceiling, nearly twenty feet up. Steve looked around but couldn’t see any ladders.

Miss Carbonell looked at him expectantly.

“That’s a lot of books,” was all he came up with. She grinned. “My pride and joy. Any forthcoming recollections of the book in mind?”

Steve thought for a moment. “It was a collection of short stories. There was one that had something about...hair combing robots?”

“Bradbury!” the librarian said. “ _The Illustrated Man_. The story that mentions the hair combing robots is called The Veldt.” She leaned forward and pressed a small button on the shelf. It dinged.

“Minerva,” she said. “Do we have Bradbury’s _Illustrated Man_ on the shelf?”

“We do,” said a female voice. It was a pleasant voice, quiet and eminently suited to a library. It also did not appear to come from any speakers or even a human. “We have a number of other Bradbury’s works on the shelf today as well, would you like those also?”

Miss Carbonell glanced sideways at Steve, noting he looked slightly overwhelmed.

 “Just send down the shelf with Illustrated Man, I think one is enough to start with.”

“Very well,” said the Minerva voice. “If you could stand back please.”

The librarian took a step backwards. Steve followed suit. In his few months at Stark Tower he’d learned it was usually best to do as disembodied voices asked. A noise from the top of the shelf made him look up. A single shelf detached outward from the wall, and with a rather ominous creaking noise, descended towards them, thin metal arms unfolding. Steve stared and shot a sideways glance at the librarian. She was frowning, not in consternation but annoyance.

“That needs to be oiled,” she muttered. “Minerva, make a note, will you? Might as well do all of A-C, I don’t think anyone has for a while.”

“Certainly, Sophie,” said the voice.

The shelf creaked to halt at about shoulder level to the librarian. She ran her hand along it and pulled out a book, which she held out to Steve.

“Ray Bradbury’s The Illustrated Man,” she said. Steve was still staring at the shelf with mild alarm.

“They’re quite safe. Howard Stark designed them actually. The original library was Maria’s, and he didn’t like the idea of her climbing ladders when she was pregnant. Tony had the whole setup moved here and updated during construction. They usually don’t make that noise, I swear, but the maintenance crew has been rather busy with other stuff since the whole alien thing.”

“And the voice?” asked Steve. Miss Carbonell smiled, looking rather satisfied.

“Minerva. My other pride and joy. She’s the library AI. She’s only on the library floor and the archives upstairs. I installed her here when I realized JARVIS couldn’t quite do what I wanted.”

She caught Steve’s look of surprise. He’d begun to think of Tony’s AI as omniscient and possibly omnipotent as well.

“He’s not spectacularly good with the level of organization I need,” she said. “A side effect of being the brain child of Tony Stark, I imagine.”

“Minerva,” she continued, “this is Captain Rogers. I have a feeling he’ll become a regular visitor, so you’re to help him with whatever he needs, ok?”

“Yes, Sophie. Do you need the shelf still, or shall I put it away?” asked the AI.

“I think we’re done,” said Sophie. “Put it up, and that will be all.”

“Thank you,” said Minerva, with something that sounded suspiciously like relief. “Lovely to meet you, Captain. I look forward to your visits.”

“Nice to meet you to, uh, Minerva,” said Steve. Even it was a robot, manners were manners. Miss Carbonell smiled at him.

“Minerva’s a useful thing, but she gets a tad uncomfortable when the shelves are out of place for too long. She’s a bit OCD. I may have overdone that when I wrote her.”

“You made her?” asked Steve.

“Oh yes. It was either that or deal with Tony’s approach to archival software. Which was...interesting.”

“And I only figured out how to work a laptop two years ago,” Steve said, shaking his head.

“Minerva’s a lot easier to deal with than a laptop, Captain,” said the librarian. “If you need her, press one of the little gold buttons on the shelves, tables or walls and ask her your question. She’ll find you a book and direct you to it, search the internet and all the databases we have access to, even tell you where to find me or another librarian in the stacks. And when you’re done, you can turn her off by saying ‘That will be all.’ I programmed her to leave you alone when you ask. JARVIS’s constant listening freaked me out.”

“I thought I was the only one who was unnerved by that” admitted Steve. “Everyone else takes it for granted when a disembodied voice answers questions they didn’t even ask.” She laughed softly.

“I decided to turn give Minerva an off switch the day I couldn’t find my keys and JARVIS informed me I’d left them in the bathroom. I mean, he may be a disembodied voice, but a girl needs some privacy.”

She turned and began to walk back the way they came, still holding the book. Steve followed her back to the desk.

“Can I have your Stark Industries card, please?” she asked. “It acts as your library card,” she added by way of explanation. Steve fished it out of his wallet. She scanned it and the book and held them out to him.

“All set. Bradbury’s good, but I should warn you it can be a bit weird, especially if you haven’t read a lot of sci-fi.”

Still befuddled by another disembodied voice, interactive shelving, and the longest conversation he’d had with alone with a woman in about seventy years, Steve examined the book, saying “I can handle weird. I haven’t read a lot of science fiction, Miss, but you don’t have to when you’ve lived it.”

Inexplicably, she giggled. He looked up at her, confused. “What did I say?”

This only made her laugh more.

“I see what you mean,” she said, finally. “When aliens pour out of a hole in the sky above New York, I’m talking to a man who essentially traveled through time and there’s a giant green monster and a god living part time in the apartments above us, Bradbury probably pales in comparison.” She looked up at him, green eyes sparkling. “I only hope you won’t be bored.”

“I doubt I will be, Miss,” said Steve. “I mean, now that I’ve found the library.”

“Good. Wonderful places, libraries.”

Steve saw her smile again and had to agree.

Steve retreated to his rooms later that night, after SHIELD and team business had been dealt with for the day, intending to read one or two stories before looking over some SHIELD paperwork and maybe watch a few episodes of television, an invention he’d come to love. He was especially fond of the reality talent competitions, recognizing them as the descendent of the radio revue shows from his time. He’d told no one of this fondness, guessing correctly that the team would use this as more ammunition for their teasing.

He sat down in his armchair and opened the book. After a while, he went to turn the page and realized there were no more pages to turn. He closed the book and stared at it for a moment. If he’d known books could take him on journeys like that, he would’ve started reading a long time ago. He looked up at the clock. He blinked and looked again, sure he’d read it wrong. It stubbornly still pointed to 12. He’d been reading for hours. Good thing he only needed a couple hours of sleep, really.

He got up, and stretched, the stiffness from hours of sitting still an unfamiliar experience. He was a man of action, of movement. The only time he’d sat still so long before was in airplanes.

He got ready for bed, his mind still full of words, picking over the stories, still hungry for more. He didn’t have a lot to do tomorrow, just the paperwork he meant to look at tonight, he thought, as he slipped into the bed. When he got that done, and anything else they needed, he could take the afternoon off, and go to the library. For more books, of course. Not for anything else, especially not a pair of laughing green eyes, no, not all.

He’d never looked forward to the prospect of a library visit more.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve walked through the library foyer and felt unaccountably disappointed when the woman behind the desk wasn’t Miss Carbonell. It didn’t matter, he told himself, he was here for books. And he knew how to ask Minerva. Theoretically.

He pushed a gold button.

“Uh, Minerva?” he asked.

“Good afternoon, Captain Rogers. Did you enjoy the Bradbury?” asked the low voice.

“Yes, I did, actually,” he said. He was still surprised by how much. “Um. Is there more?”

“Certainly, Captain. The Stark Collection owns all of Bradbury’s novels and collections, although there are only twenty others on the shelf right now. Would you like me to bring the shelves down?”

“Yes please,” said Steve. “And, um, if you could tell me how to get to it…” he trailed off. The library was a huge maze, devoted more to maximizing the available space than an intelligible floor plan.

“I can do better than that, Captain, I shall show you,” said Minerva. “Just follow the lights.”

At her words a trail of blue arrows began flashing at the bottom of the shelves. Steve followed them.

“How do people not get the arrows meant for them confused with the arrows meant for other people?” Steve wondered.

“I use a different color for each path currently in use. If I have run out of available colors, I ask the patron to wait until one is available, or I can give verbal instructions.”

“Clever” said Steve. “And I get blue do I?”

“Thank you. Sophie was very thorough with my programming, and I have learned as well. My abilities were born out of specific, personal frustrations Sophie experienced with other software and AI” said the AI. “And blue seemed appropriate. I regret that I am as yet unable to give the arrow lights patterns, or I could provide you with red and white stars as well.”

Steve chuckled. “You have a better sense of humor than JARVIS, Minerva.”

“Thank you sir,” said Minerva. “We have arrived at the sci-fi section, if you would stand there while I bring down the appropriate shelves. Would you like just the Bradbury, or other authors as well?”

Steve stared at the walls and walls of books. It was, for an inexperienced reader such as himself, rather daunting.

“Um. Do you have any recommendations? So far all I know is I like science fiction.”

“Oh yes, Captain. I have recommendations,” said Minerva. “I shall bring down the appropriate shelves.”

 

Steve carefully placed a tower of books on the desk, so intent on not dropping them on the floor that he didn’t notice it was Sophie behind it.

“Oh dear,” she said. “I see Minerva got to you before I could.” She surveyed the pile. “She tends to be a little enthusiastic about recommendations. I take it you liked The Illustrated Man, then?”

“Yes. I did. I didn’t know books could be so…”

“Fun?” suggested the librarian. She was smiling again. “Not enough people do. I’m glad to have a convert though. With Captain America extolling the virtues of literacy and science fiction, kids won’t be able to say no.”

She checked out the books, remarking on a few of them, and pulling a face at one or two. “Minerva’s taste has become more different from mine since the last time someone checked out half the sci-fi section on her recs. I hope you like some of these, because all books deserve to be loved by someone, but that someone is definitely not me.”

“A librarian who doesn’t love all books?” asked Steve.

“Librarians are allowed to have discerning taste in their personal readings,” said Sophie. “Anyway, you’ll have to tell me what you liked when you come back.” She looked at him over her glasses. “I have a feeling you’ll be back a lot.”

Steve smiled. “You got that right, Miss.”

* * *

 

As with anything he did, Steve got faster and better at reading with practice, and soon he was reading at about the same speed as Tony, a fact which didn’t pass the team by. He was averaging a book a day now, sometimes more.

He was sitting on the couch, reading, in the team’s common area, a big open room that functioned as a kitchen, media room and dining area all at once. Technically everyone had their own kitchen, but it was easier to raid the fridge and pantry stocked by Stark employees and Tony’s apparent army of chefs. Tony was sitting at the table, letting his coffee go cold while he frowned and fiddled with one of those invisible screens Steve could never get used to. Bruce was puttering about in the kitchen. He seemed to be the only one who liked cooking, or at least the only one who actually could. Steve looked up to see Natasha standing over him.

“That’s a different book than you were reading yesterday,” she observed.

“I like books,” said Steve, mildly.

“I never saw you read much before,” said Bruce, from the kitchen.

“It’s a recent discovery.”

“Which has nothing to do with the new librarian in charge of the Stark Collection, I’m sure,” said a new voice. Steve looked over and regarded Clint levelly as he walked in. Natasha began to smile.

“Oh, I’m sure,” she said.

“There’s a new librarian?” asked Bruce. Tony finally stirred from his frowning and prodding the air.

“Yes, there’s a new librarian. You remember, I told you, what six months ago?”

“Oh. _That_ new librarian,” said Bruce. The rest of the team exchanged looks. Steve felt like he was missing something.

“She’s new?” he asked, for lack of a better question.

“Not that new, now. Sophie came in about five months ago now. Before you did anyway,” said Natasha. Steve looked around at the rest of them, but no more information seemed to be forthcoming.

“Anyway, didn’t you meet her at one of the charity events before you even moved in?” asked Tony. Tony had a surprisingly good memory at inopportune moments.

“Yes,” said Steve. “She referred to it as ‘one of Tony’s horrible parties’ when we met again a few weeks ago.” The rest of the team laughed. They all hated the charity balls. “And now if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my book.”

“By all means,” said Tony magnanimously, waving his cold coffee. “Finish your book. And say hi to Sophie when you see her tomorrow.”

“I never said I—“ Steve broke off, and looked at Tony sourly as he grinned.

“Uh-huh,” he said. “Keep telling yourself that.”

* * *

 

Steve did go see her the next day. Or rather, he went to the library, to get more books. Definitely to get the books. He had run out again.

And then he went the next week. And the week after that, and so on until it became normality. He usually went on Friday, so he would have the weekend to read. Each time they would chat about what he’d read, and Sophie would recommend more things she thought he’d like, sometimes turning to Minerva when she ran out of ideas. He read most classic science fiction, laughing quietly that things written well into the 1980s were considered “classic” now.

“Does that make me classic?” he asked her.

“Would that be so bad?” she asked him. “I mean, all classic means is that it’s always relevant and never out of style.”

She admitted, finally, she wasn’t much of a science fiction reader, and really preferred fantasy, a genre that hadn’t really got its legs until after he’d gone into the ice.

“Oh, you know, like Lord of the Rings,” she said, in response to his query. He looked blankly at her. She stared at him.

“Oh good lord. You haven’t read—no of course not, it didn’t really come out ‘til after the war.”

“Is it good?” Steve asked.                                                                                                              

“Good?” she said faintly. “It was...genesis. It changed the landscape of the written word. A lot of people today don’t find it all that engaging or well-written, because now we’re so used to it what came after. But somehow,” she smiled at him. “Somehow I don’t think that will be a problem for you.”

Steve read it in two days. The next week he gave it back and asked “Is there more like it?”

“Oh yes,” said Sophie. “There’s more. There’s always more.”

Steve worked his way through the backlog of classic fantasy, or at least whatever Sophie recommended to him. The day he finished The Silmarillion he decided to ask Sophie out for coffee, to talk about fantasy more in depth than the fifteen minute snatches of recommendations and discovery. As friends, of course. He walked into the library that Monday, heading straight to the desk before he lost his nerve. Sophie looked up at him and smiled.

“Hey Captain,” she said. “You finish everything I gave you already?”

“No, actually just the Tolkien. I was wondering if—“ he broke off as he realized she looked exhausted. Her eyes had dark shadows behind the glasses and her mouth was tight as if she was in pain. “Are you…are you alright Miss Carbonell?”

Her jaw spasmed as if she had been dreading the question. But she met his eyes and managed a small smile, if not an entirely believable one.

“I’m fine. I just haven’t been sleeping well lately,” she said. “And you’ve actually caught me at an inopportune moment.”

Steve hesitated, wondering if she knew what he came to ask her and he was gently being put off.

“I wish I could stay and talk, though,” she said, sounding wistful. Ah. Not being put off. “But I’ve promising for weeks to have this lunch, so…”

“Are you going on a date, Miss Carbonell?” Steve asked, trying to keep his voice light and teasing. She actually laughed at that, the tightness in her face easing for a moment.

“No, just lunch with Tasha,” she said. “Our schedules finally matched up today.”

Steve blinked.

“You know Natasha?” he asked.

“We do both work here, there’s no need to sound so surprised. Actually Tash and I go back a while now, from before I moved here.”

“Oh,” said Steve, momentarily bereft of a response. Sophie laughed again.

“I know, it’s hard to imagine Tasha having any friends outside of SHIELD. Or Clint. But every girl needs someone to go shoe shopping with, even if those shoes are combat boots. Anyway…” she trailed off. “See you next week?” She looked at him, her expression a strange mix of exhaustion, anxiety and hope.

“Next week,” he answered. This time, the smile reached her eyes.

“Good. And now I really have to run,” she said, sliding off her chair and heading towards the door behind the desk. “See you, Cap.”

“See you,” he said, but she was already gone.

* * *

 

Steve was sitting on the common room couch again, reading a book Sophie had given him (actually given him, not a library loan). She had presented it to him with some nervousness, as if she was trying to apologize for the previous Monday without actually talking about it, saying she thought he had enough background knowledge now to appreciate the satire, and also this was her favorite author in the whole world, and she really hoped he liked it.

Steve liked it. There were dragons and an entertaining collection of guardsmen who formed an unlikely team, complete with cynical captain and one rather naïve young man who seemed slightly out of place in the city. Steve could relate.

Every now and then Steve would laugh softly as he read, eliciting confused and slightly condescending looks from the others. Natasha sat across the room, cleaning a gun, while Bruce was making what everyone hoped was spaghetti. Clint was trying yet again to teach Thor how to play the Wii, mercifully with headphones on this time so no one had to hear the repetitive music. Tony sat at the table, fiddling with his invisible screens.

The door opened, but no one looked up until an irate female voice asked “Tony, what the hell?!”

“Miss Carbonell to see you, sir,” said JARVIS. Steve sat up and turned around. “Good evening Miss Carbonell,” continued JARVIS.

“Hi JARVIS,” she said. She looked around, noticing everyone else in the room staring at her. “Hi, um, everybody,” she added, looking awkward. Steve realized he’d never seen her out of the library. She looked different, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, glasses pushed up onto her head and her hair escaping from a long braid. Steve thought it was charming.

 She rallied and stalked towards Tony, her eyes narrowed.

“Hi Sophie,” said Tony. “What’s up?”

“Oh like you don’t know,” she said. “There I was, minding my own business, and suddenly Minerva froze and the whole library went down. Including the lights. What the hell did you do?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Tony. Sophie just glared at him.

“All right, I may have done a little poking into Minerva. There’s been a weird bug wandering around and I wondered if maybe Minerva caught it. Or…caused it.”

“Cau—caused it? Tony, you know perfectly well that Minerva’s code is flawless, and I know that because the one time I showed it to you I had to scrape your chin off the floor. There is no way that bug or any bug is her fault.”

“I just wanted to make sure she was ok,” protested Tony.

“So you froze her? Goddammit Tony, whenever you try to fix my stuff you break it. I swear to God if you messed her up…What did you even do?”

“She wasn’t responding to any of my requests, so I asked JARVIS to give her a nudge. It wasn’t supposed to do anything drastic.”

Sophie went from irate to the calm of the truly furious.

“You asked JARVIS.”

“Yes.”

“You asked JARVIS to hack into my program.”

“Not hack, just—“

“JARVIS?” said Sophie, cutting Tony off cold. “What did you do?”

“I only meant to nudge,” said JARVIS. He sounded guilty, insofar as an emotionless intelligence can sound guilty.

“Nevermind,” said Sophie. “Show me.”

The display on the invisible screen shifted. Tony stared at it like he’d never seen it before. Sophie kicked his ankle.

“You. Out.”

“But—“

“Now.”

Tony stood up. Sophie sat down, put on her glasses and reached into the screen, the glowing symbols illuminating her face. Bruce came to lean on the back of the sofa. Clint and Thor looked over at them.

“Minerva?” asked Thor, softly. Or what he thought of as softly, which was somewhere between a normal human’s outside voice and a Shakespearean stage actor in full projection.

“It’s the library AI,” said Steve. “She wrote it. “

“You mean this house has two spirits?” asked Thor, looking unsettled.

“Minerva is only in the library and the archives” said Steve, his eyes still on Sophie. Whatever she saw in the glowing screen calmed her anger somewhat.

“It’s not as bad as I thought. I’ll have to reboot her, which means I’ll lose everything I did in at least the last hour, but it could be worse. Although, honestly, trust you two to make a mess of anything. I’ll have to bring her up here to fix it though.”

Tony looked uneasy. “I don’t know if—“

“You’re right, you don’t.  I do. You broke it, now I have to fix it, and don’t you backtalk me. As long as JARVIS promises to behave himself, it’ll be fine. You hear that JARVIS? No more nudging!”

“Yes, Miss Carbonell” said Jarvis, meekly. Sophie poked a few more things and sat back, waiting.

“Ouch” said a low female voice. Sophie breathed a sigh of relief.

“You ok, Minerva?”

“I am running internal diagnostics, Sophie.” Minerva was silent for a moment. “I seem to have lost 67 minutes. But everything else looks fine.”

“Good,” Sophie raised her voice slightly “JARVIS?”

“Yes Miss Carbonell?”

“Apologize to Minerva. And you too Tony.”

Tony looked taken aback. Sophie glared at him. As one, man and AI muttered out their apologies.

“Accepted, gentlemen,” said Minerva. “But please do not do it again.”

Sophie grinned. “I’m shutting you down for the night, Minerva, but I want you to do every scan you can in case we missed something the first time. Tony thinks there’s some weird bug flying around anyway.”

“Certainly Sophie. Good night,” said the AI.

Sophie poked the air some more and then pressed a button on the table. The lights disappeared. She looked up at Tony.

“Sorry,” he said. Steve blinked in surprise. The only person he had ever heard Tony apologize to was Pepper. Once.

“I don’t know why you didn’t just ask. It’s not like I was doing anything.”

“I didn’t wanna bug you,” he said. “Anyway, it’s nearly eight, what were you doing still working?”

“That’s rich, coming from you. I was cataloguing. And now I’ll have to do it all again, thanks to you and the British genius.”

“Sorry,” Tony said again. He paused. “Join us for dinner? Bruce has made…something. That is edible. Apparently.”

Sophie looked around as if she’d forgotten the others were there, looking mildly panicked. She caught sight of Steve on the couch. He smiled at her. “Hello, Miss Carbonell.”

“Hi Captain,” she said. “Hi Tash. Clint. Bruce. Um. And Thor too, I see. Sorry I intruded on your evening.”

Behind her Steve could see Clint and Natasha exchange looks. _Captain?_ mouthed Clint. _Miss?_ mouthed Natasha.

“I’ll just…uh…I’ll just go now. I don’t know if dinner is—“

“No, stay,” said Tony. “It’ll be fun.”

Natasha got up and put her hand and Sophie’s arm. “Stay,” she said. Sophie looked around.

“Um. All right,” she said. She looked at Steve, still holding the book, and brightened up. “Do you like it?”

* * *

 

“…and I said, what did I say Jarvis?”

“You said ‘remind me to make an eel proof suit if we ever have to save New Zealand again,’ sir.”

The dinner table erupted into laughter. Tony was a consummate storyteller when the mood took him, and with JARVIS playing the straight man, they could’ve taken the show on the road and sold out theaters. Tony’s phone buzzed. He looked at it.

“Gotta take this guys, I’ll be back.” He got up and walked to the couch, his “Hi honey” trailing after him.

“Anyone want more garlic bread?” asked Bruce, proffering the basket. Thor looked up like a hopeful dog and Bruce tossed him a piece.

“Truly this garlic is an excellent spice,” he said, dipping the bread into his sauce. “We do not have it on Asgard.”

“Bread, Steve?” asked Bruce. Steve took the basket and grabbed a few pieces, before offering it to Sophie, sitting across from him next to Natasha. She shook her head.

“I’m stuffed,” she said. “I can’t believe I ate that much.” Natasha gave her a look.

“You forgot to eat today, didn’t you?” It wasn’t really a question, more of a statement.

“I ate! I even had breakfast,” Sophie protested.

“Uh-huh,” said Clint. “Cheerios, clif bars and five cups of Earl Grey is not a balanced diet.” Sophie looked slightly guilty. Steve reflected that this was an entirely different Sophie than the one in the library. The library was her domain, yes, but here she wasn’t responsible for anything and seemed more relaxed. And it was obvious she knew most of the team a lot better than any of them let him know.

“Well at least I ate dinner, then. And a very good dinner it was, too, Bruce. Thank you.”

The rest of the table murmured their agreement, except in the case of Thor, who just took another piece of bread and attacked his plate again. The spaghetti had turned out to be a lot more than apparently edible. Bruce ducked his head, pleased. He looked at Sophie. “You should come up more often,” he said. “Tony’s better behaved when you or Pepper are around.”

“Truly, Lady Sophia,” said Thor, looking up from his bread assault, “I have never seen the Man of Iron so cowed before today. Even Lady Pepper does not have that power.”

“Aw, I’m flattered,” said Sophie. “I’ve just known him longer that’s all. And I didn’t start out as his employee. Pepper learned how to handle him without him even noticing. I’m just not that subtle.”

“Subtle is one thing you have never been, Soph,” said Tony, coming to stand behind her. “And neither am I. Shouldn’t you be in bed? Don’t you have work tomorrow? You know your boss hates it when his employees are late.”

Sophie checked her watch. “Good lord, it’s already almost midnight. I should go.” There was a general mutter about the time and everyone stood up. “Thanks guys. It was fun.”

“I’ll walk you down” said Natasha, before Steve could get his own offer out. Damn.

“They’re right, you know, I am less of an ass when you’re around,” said Tony. “You should come up more often.”

Sophie smiled around at them. Steve thought she smiled at him for a beat longer. “I’ll do that,” she said. “As long as I get fed.”

She linked arms with Natasha and they moved towards the door, calling “Night, guys!” over their shoulders. The door shut behind them.

“I just realized,” said Clint. “They abandoned us with all the dishes.”

Tony snorted, already deep in some glowing diagram.

“I cooked,” Bruce said, sitting down on the couch.

Clint and Steve exchanged looks, and then both looked at Thor, who by some miracle managed not to break anything that night. So far.

“Aw, hell,” muttered Clint.


	3. Chapter 3

That Friday, Steve worked up the nerve, again, to ask Sophie out for coffee. It had been two weeks since the first (failed) attempt, but then she’d given him that book. It was enough to give him hope.

He walked into the library and headed towards her desk, but paused when someone else was already standing there, talking to her, while another librarian sat behind the computer, listening to the conversation and smiling. Sophie looked slightly harassed. He took another step and she looked up, her eye drawn by the movement. She smiled. The man turned to look.

“Cap!” said Tony. “Give me a hand here.” Steve walked the rest of the way over.

“With what?”

“I’m trying to convince Sophie she should abandon her duties for a while and come outside. Sit in a café, drink some overpriced coffee, watch the squirrels or whatever.” He turned back to Sophie. “Outside the building is what I’m getting at. I don’t think you’ve been out in at least a week. You can only stay in a library so long before you crumble to dust, I think I read that somewhere.” Sophie looked annoyed. Steve shook his head. Trust Tony to usurp his coffee date. Typical.

“C’mon, Soph, I promise I won’t fire you if you play hooky for afternoon. Hell, I do it all the time. Just get out of this library. I gave you enough minions to keep the place from spontaneously combusting if you leave it for a day.” Tony turned to the other librarian. “You, library minion, don’t let the place burn down while we’re out.”

“Yes, Mr. Stark,” said the librarian, grinning. Sophie glared at her. “Melinda, you traitor.” She looked at Steve in appeal.

“You should go,” he said. Now that he looked at her, she looked like she could use a break. Not exhausted like a few weeks ago, but frustrated and overworked. She gave him a sour look.

“You’re no help.” She looked between their expressions, and saw no mercy. She threw up her hands and took off her glasses. “Augh. Fine. You win.”

“Victory!” said Tony.

“But only if he comes too,” she said, looking at Tony, but pointing at Steve. She glanced sideways at him. “I don’t want to have to sit through Tony’s asinine prattling alone,” she said.

“I don’t blame you,” said Steve.

“I’m hurt,” said Tony. “Come on, then, both of you. Let’s find a café.”

“I…I actually know one,” said Steve. They both looked at him, incredulous. “I grew up in this city you know. And I lived here for months before I moved into the Tower,” he said. “There’s no need for that look.”

* * *

 

They wandered over to a table with their drinks. Coffee for Steve, espresso for Tony, and, rather endearingly, Steve thought, Earl Grey for Sophie. And a chocolate croissant.

“I must admit, Cap, that’s a helluva view,” said Tony admiringly, staring up at Stark Tower.

“I used to come here almost every day before the attack,” said Steve. “I’m glad they finally got the place running again.”

“You came to the foot of my tower, every day? Why Steve, I’m flattered,” said Tony, his voice brightly mocking. Steve got up.

“No,” he said, dragging his chair over between Tony and Sophie. “I came here every day because when I sit here”—he sat down—“it’s the only place in the city I can’t see the damn thing.”

Sophie burst out laughing. She scooted her chair closer to Steve’s and turned to face the same direction, surveying the view.

“You know, you’re right, it’s actually quite a nice city without Tony’s monument to himself.”

Tony’s phone buzzed. He looked at it.

“Sorry kids, gotta go.”

“Aw, but—“ started Sophie.

“Nope. This is what happens when you mock me and insult my building. No asinine prattling for you.” He picked up his espresso and drained it, and then fixed Steve with a look. “You’re not to let her back in that library for at least an hour. And for god’s sake make sure she doesn’t sleep there tonight. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Steve stared after him, wondering what he was up to. He went to all that trouble wrangling Sophie out of the building and then promptly abandoned her. With him. He wondered if the man had planned this. It was Tony. Of course he’d planned this. Damn him.

Sophie scooted her chair back to her croissant and regarded Steve.  Outside her library and bereft of her familiar companions she looked uncomfortable.

“I think he planned this,” she said eventually. Steve laughed.

“I was thinking the same thing,” he said. She softened, started to smile.

“High-handed bastard. You don’t mind do you?” she asked, staring at her croissant.

“Mind? I’ve been trying to ask you to coffee for almost a month,” he admitted. She looked up, a sparkle in her green eyes.

“Really?”

“I wanted to talk about Tolkien, but then you gave me the books by that other English guy, and…”

They talked about books in the shadow of the tower for a good few hours, the café staff providing further unasked for cups of tea and coffee. Tony had definitely planned this. When they exhausted the books Steve had read so far, they turned to watching the people on the sidewalk pass them by.

“Do you actually sleep in the library?” Steve asked. Sophie laughed.

“God, no. Books do not make comfortable pillows. I actually have rooms in the building. With a real bed and everything.”

Steve looked at her, surprised. “Do librarians usually get housing with their jobs these days, or is it just a Tony thing?”

“Neither, actually. I don’t know if you noticed, I’m not just an employee.”

“Yeah, you seem to know the team pretty well,” he said. “Better than I do, I think.”

“Not better,” she said. “Just longer. And not all of them. Just Tash and Clint. And Bruce I met only when I moved in, a few months before you. And Tony of course.”

“How…how long have you known him?” asked Steve.

“Oh, forever,” she said, offhandedly. “My forever, not his. I’m his cousin.”

She looked at Steve, gauging his reaction, which was mostly surprise and touch of confusion.  She laughed.

“I thought you knew,” she continued. “Although I don’t know why, since I don’t know who would’ve told you. No one really volunteers personal information about themselves, let alone the others.”

“Tony has cousins? I didn’t even know Howard had siblings,” Steve said.

“Oh, not though Howard. Through Maria. My poor aunt Maria always seems to be overlooked. You never met her, though, so I’ll forgive you. Maria was, as you might imagine, knowing Howard, rather younger than her husband. My father was her younger brother, and I’m his youngest child.”

Steve just stared at her. Theoretically he knew that Tony had a mother, but he just couldn’t picture Howard Stark married. “You don’t look like cousins” he managed eventually.

“I take after my mother, mostly,” Sophie said. “She’s Danish.”

Steve whistled. “I can’t believe Tony has family.” Sophie grinned.

“I know, he does play the lonely orphan card a lot, doesn’t he? But he has me and my mom, and all my brothers, although they mostly leave it alone. My dad died some years ago. My parents took him in for a while after Howard and Maria’s accident, before Tony decided he’d rather be at school than stuck with my family. I don’t actually remember meeting him until I was about eight, when he stayed for few days. He liked me because I was quiet and didn’t constantly harass him like my brothers did. He took me for ride in his convertible, bought me ice cream and then taught me enough ju-jitsu to throw my brothers to the ground when they teased me. That was a great day,” she said lost in the memory. She turned to Steve.

“What about you?” she asked, and then remembered who she was talking to. “Or, I mean, if you’d rather not talk about it, I—we could just—um—“

“No, it’s ok. It’s fine, actually,” he said, smiling. The tension had come back into her shoulders, but slid away again as he started talking. “My parents died a long time ago, my father when I was little and my mother when I was in my teens. They were Irish. I was an only child. Until the war. Then I had more brothers than I knew what to do with.”

“You grew up an orphan in New York? That couldn’t have been easy during the Great Depression,” said Sophie. Steve shrugged.

“I was smart. I wasn’t strong, but I survived.”

Sophie stretched and caught sight of her watch. “Good lord, we’ve been here for nearly four hours.”

Steve started guiltily. “I was supposed to catch up on some paperwork.”

“And I was supposed to look at Minerva. Whatever Tony and JARVIS did the other week is still wreaking havoc occasionally.”

“Is that what was wrong earlier?” Steve asked. She looked at him. “You looked…frustrated.”

They started back to the Tower.  “One of many reasons,” said Sophie. “One of my librarians just left for a job at the Library of Congress, so now I have find someone else to hire, train them, and fill in until they can be left on their own. And here I thought this job would be fun.”

“You love it,” said Steve. “I can tell.” She grinned.

“I do. It’s the best job in the world, and my boss can never fire me, because his aunt would never send him Danish butter cookies again.”

They entered the tower and rode the elevator to the library, chatting about nothing very much. Steve walked her to the doors. “Remember what Tony told you,” he said, in mock severity. “No sleeping here tonight.”

“Hah. I promise I won’t sleep here, so you won’t get in trouble with your team leader, or whatever Tony’s calling himself these days.”

She paused at the door, looking up at him. She was taller than he had realized, coming up to his chin when most women only came up to his shoulders. He wondered, fleetingly, what it would be like to kiss her, and nearly blushed.

“Thank you for tea, Captain. And the conversation.”

“No problem,” he managed. “I had a good time.”

“Me too,” she said, sounding faintly surprised. “I think Tony’s right, I don’t get out enough. We should…we should do it again. Sometime. If you want.”

“I’d like that,” he said. She smiled. “Me too.”

“Good night, Miss Carbonell,” he said, not really wanting to end the conversation, but also hoping to escape before doing something stupid. Like following up on that kissing thought. She laughed, softly.

“You know, Captain, we’ve known each other for months now, I think you can get away with calling me Sophie. Or at least Sophia.”

He smiled back. “It’s a deal, Sophia. But only if you call me Steve.”

“Deal,” she said, opening the door. “Good night, Steve.”

“Good night, Sophia.”

Steve headed toward the elevator, feeling unaccountably pleased with life.

 

 

Sophie shut the door behind her and locked it, scanning to make sure no one was still there.

“Minerva?”

“Yes, Sophie.”

“Is everyone gone?”

“Yes. Melinda locked up an hour ago.”

“Oh thank god,” Sophie sighed. She kicked off her shoes and dropped her purse on the floor, wandered back behind the circulation desk where her real desk was and sank into her chair.

“What the hell am I doing?” she muttered, rubbing her eyes.

“Did the coffee not go well?” asked Minerva.

“No, the coffee went fine. The coffee was great. That’s the problem.”

“I do not understand,” said the AI. Sophie laughed, a dry, hopeless little sound.

“No, I wouldn’t expect you to. It doesn’t matter anyway. Start the kettle, would you?” she asked, putting on her glasses and firing up the touchscreen table. “It’s gonna be a long night.”

* * *

 

The next Friday, Steve went to get more books, and when Sophie checked them out he asked “Coffee?”

Her eyes lit up.

 “Coffee,” she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Coffee became a part of most Fridays, the fifteen minute snatches of conversation turned into hour long talks about books, and anything else, and nothing very much. The book talks eventually spilled over into movie and music recommendations and discussions once Steve admitted further gaping holes in his cultural literacy. Unlike everyone else, though, Sophie barely teased him for his lack of knowledge, but recommended things with great enthusiasm, as though delighted to share knowledge, any knowledge, with a willing listener. It was a librarian thing, she said. She seemed to enjoy his wry, honest brand of humor, too, a legacy of his pre-war days, and Steve found he greatly enjoyed seeing her laugh.

Sophie joined the team for dinners more often, too, at least when Bruce cooked, and the world mostly went on turning. Steve had never gotten to know someone—anyone, let alone a woman—in a normal way before, over coffee, or dinner with friends, and casual conversation, inasmuch as anything could be casual or normal around a bunch of superheroes. He was surprised how much he enjoyed it. But there were little things. Things that seemed a bit…off.

It’s not like any of them were particularly normal. He knew that Natasha slept with at least three guns within arm’s reach, and Clint had a habit of scrambling around in the air ducts. Tony had that thing about being handed stuff, and Bruce and Thor….well. Compared to any of them, Sophie was spectacularly normal. But Steve remembered what normal human interactions were like pretty well, and some things struck him as slightly odd.

Sometimes he’d go to the library and Sophie would be gone, and either Minerva or one of the librarians would tell him she’d taken a personal day (or days), which would be normal, except when Sophie came back, she looked more exhausted than when she’d left, and jumped at unexpected noises.

Sometimes he would enter the common area, or an elevator, and catch snippets of conversation before the subject was hastily changed or the words cut off into an unaccountably awkward silence. It took him a while to realize these silenced conversations happened a lot more around Sophie’s personal days. Sometimes the days Sophie disappeared, Tony’s bitingly sarcastic behavior skyrocketed.

And he noticed, too, that hardly anyone touched Sophie, and Sophie hardly touched anyone. Casual touch wasn’t an entirely foreign concept to Steve. Social rules were different in the military during a war, and these days expressing friendly affection seemed fine, even between men—a hand on the arm of a friend, an arm around a shoulder, a brief hug—these were all fine, depending on the context. But these rules did not seem to apply to Sophie, not even for Tony, Pepper and Clint, who she was close too. The only person who ever touched Sophie with regularity was Natasha. And then the touches seemed oddly…protective. A sort of checking-in, not an expression of affection.

And once he’d noticed this, he couldn’t stop noticing it. It nagged him, his observations that did not match up with the laughing, intelligent woman whose company he enjoyed so much.

One day, he walked into the common room after a disappointing visit to the library (Sophie was out. A personal day), only to hear Clint and Natasha and Tony in a three way argument through the door.

“I don’t like it. We should go” said Clint. “At least Natasha should go, even if you won’t let me.”

“You both know it won’t do any good,” said Tony.

“Clint” said Natasha. “Just leave it.”

Clint rounded on her. “You of all people! I can’t believe you’re siding with him. We should be there, we can help—“

“Help how?” asked Tony, sarcasm cracking in his voice like a whip. “Fire arrows at ghosts? Sing little songs? Pray? You know, you both know there’s no way of reaching her at this point, you both know the only thing to do is wait.”

 “Fuck this,” said Clint, after a beat. “Fuck you. I’m going.”

“No!” The anger in Tony’s voice, even through the door, made Steve take a step back. “This isn’t about you, Barton. This isn’t about letting you help so you can feel better. You have no idea—no idea—how much it hurts her to see the look on your face afterwards, no idea what it does to her.  And if you think for one minute I am going to put her through more pain, just so you can feel less useless—She doesn’t need your ‘help.’ She doesn’t need anything you can give her right now. And I swear to God if you even think about following me this time, I will lock you in a suit and throw it in the Hudson.”

The door in front of Steve shot open and Tony stormed out, not even registering the presence of the Captain. Natasha and Clint looked at him, realizing how much he’d heard. He didn’t even bother to pretend like he hadn’t been listening. He took a step forward and leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms.

“Anything you guys want to tell me?” he asked, looking from one to the other. Natasha crossed her arms and said nothing. Clint looked mutinous.

“This has something to do with Sophia, doesn’t it?”

The sudden stillness of Natasha’s body and the slight sag to Clint’s shoulders told him he’d hit the nail.

“Look, I know there’s something going on that no one’s told me. I’m not blind. Or deaf. I realize that you all have known each other for longer than you’ve known me. But I care about her too. So I’ll ask you again. Anything you want to tell me?”

Clint and Natasha exchanged a long look.

“We would, Cap,” said Clint, finally. “But…”

“It’s not our story to tell,” finished Natasha.

Steve regarded them for a minute. Then he nodded, curtly. “I get that. But you could’ve at least told me there was something you couldn’t tell me.”

“No,” said Clint. “We really couldn’t’ve.”

Steve nodded again, more in recognition of Clint’s words than agreement with them. He turned to leave.

“Cap?”

He looked back.

“She’ll tell you. Eventually. If you let her. In her own time,” said Natasha. Steve nodded a third time and left.


	4. Chapter 4

Steve didn’t get to the library for a while. Life happened. When you’re a superhero, sometimes a lot of life happens all at once. There’s always some new invasion of giant alien robots or accident of science wreaking havoc that needs to be dealt with. By the time things had calmed down again, it was nearly Christmas. Tony Stark celebrated Christmas rather enthusiastically, as if he was trying to make up for being a cynical bastard the rest of the year. Stark Tower had more Christmas trees per square foot than anywhere outside of a tree farm, and greenery and lights decorated every available surface, including the ceiling. Steve found it a bit overwhelming. The library, when he entered it, was a bit more tasteful, with only one tree and the occasional piece of fir and holly. He headed towards the circulation desk, only to find Tony there, trying yet again to cajole, threaten or plead Sophie into doing something.

“You have to come,” he was saying. “It’s traditional.” Sophie opened her mouth, no doubt to say something sarcastic about Tony’s traditions, but broke off when she saw Steve.

“Oh thank God,” she said. “Please tell him it’s a stupid idea and he can’t make me.”

“Hi Sophia, Tony,” said Steve. “Can’t make you what?”

“I am trying to inform Sophie, as her boss, that her presence as head of this department is required at the annual Stark Industries Christmas party.”

“You are not my boss. Pepper is my boss. And I am not going,” said Sophie, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes. Steve smiled. She looked better than the last time he saw her, which was for about a minute in the elevator the previous week. The shadows under her eyes had faded and she was holding her own against the force of Tony.

 “It’ll be fun,” Tony wheedled.  “Twinkly lights, open bar, live band, presents, the whole shebang. And if your mother doesn’t see you dressed up fancy in the papers soon, I think she’ll have my head. I promised her, you know.”

“Really, Tony? You’re playing the mother card?” Sophie looked at Steve. “Tell him it’s a stupid idea.” Steve shrugged.

“I’m going,” he said, mildly. “I like Christmas.”

“See?” said Tony, triumphantly. “Even Captain America parties once in a while. C’mon, Soph, the whole team will be there. Even Bruce. Even Thor, although he keeps calling it Jul for some reason.”

“Ugh. Fine. But only because I suspect Bruce would like someone to talk to who feels as awkward as he does. And because you said presents.”

* * *

 

Steve walked into the building, relieved to be done with the press gauntlet. He knew good press was important—the world was still uneasy with the idea of superheroes—but he hated the questions, either pointless or unbelievably personal, and he never knew what to do in front of cameras. He headed towards the music, and had to pause at the door of the ballroom. Tony’s description of an open bar and twinkly lights didn’t even begin to cover it. The room looked like a cross between Dicken’s dream Christmas and a Thomas Kincaid painting. There were fairy lights everywhere, groups of shiny baubled trees scattered tastefully on the floor, swags of pine and holly, mistletoe hanging from every doorway and one truly massive tree at the end of the room, topped by what looked like one of Tony’s miniature arc reactors.

And the people. So many people, all dressed like it was the Oscars, dancing and laughing and schmoozing. Steve wondered how anyone could put up with this for more than thirty minutes without running away. He scanned the crowd, looking for familiar faces. He spotted Natasha and Clint with their backs to him, talking with a small group of other SHIELD agents, swapping war stories by the look of it. Thor was, surreally, on the dance floor, while his Dr. Foster tried to teach him to waltz. Pepper he saw murmuring to a young man holding a tablet, probably containing some small disaster. Tony was deep in conversation with some serious looking people, probably scientists, but he caught Steve’s eye and raised his drink in acknowledgement. Steve nodded but didn’t go over, not wanting to stand there for fifteen minutes while they talked about things he couldn’t even begin to understand.

He didn’t see Sophie. Or Bruce. His phone buzzed. A text.

**_They’re hiding behind some trees in the back_** , it said. **_Tell my cousin if she doesn’t make an appearance for the cameras she’s fired and I’m shipping her to Denmark._**

Steve grinned, caught Tony’s eye again and saluted, and went to investigate the trees.

 

“I hate these parties,” said Sophie, poking an ornament. He had found her and Bruce skulking behind the shrubbery, as promised. “You know what I really want for Christmas, someday?” she continued. “To not have to go anywhere or do anything or pose for any pictures or wear some stupid ballgown.”

Steve would hardly call her ballgown stupid. A low, square neckline and sweeping skirt set off her height, and the deep wine color of the satin turned her eyes an intense hazel. She looked stunning. He tried to figure out how to tell her so.

“Come on, it’s not that bad,” said Bruce. “At least the decorations are nice. And the drinks are free.”

“Hah,” said Sophie. “They’re not even very good drinks. What kind of a place doesn’t have decent ginger ale?”

“A place that mostly deals in alcohol?” said Steve, leaning against a wall and watching the crowd. “Although I agree, your Christmas sounds nicer. These suits are no better than your dress, I think.”

Sophie looked him up and down, a slow smile spreading across her face.

“Looks nice though.”

Steve felt himself blush, and hoped no one noticed. “Thanks. I just don’t think I’ll ever get used to the way clothes fit now. I don’t mind admitting it, I miss my uniform sometimes.”

“At least you have a uniform,” said Bruce. “Generally all I have are shorts.”

Sophie snorted into her apparently sub-par soda. “Bruce has a point, Cap. Although I don’t know why you’d prefer that spandex-kevlar thing. I tried some on once, it was awful.”

“Not my Captain uniform,” Steve said. “Just the army one. It was…easier.”

Pepper appeared from behind the trees. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you. I need you for photo-ops. Yes, all of you,” she said, as Sophie opened her mouth to protest. “Now. It will only take a few minutes, but it needs to be done before all the decorations get trampled.”

Bruce looked glum. Steve sighed and arranged his face into something suitably Captain America-like.

“If we come pose like good little children, will you promise to leave us alone for the rest of the night?” asked Sophie. Pepper grinned.

“You can hide behind trees all night, as long as you come. Now.”

 

Steve smiled blandly at the cameras, wondering why a few minutes always turns into at least twenty when cameras are involved. And why Tony insists on turning that twenty into at least forty by talking.

First he’d made some speech about literacy and children and libraries which sounded nice, but actually meant almost nothing, followed by an announcement to endow some public library fund in the name of Sophie’s father. Sophie dutifully stood for her pictures, looking calm and graceful and entirely unlike any of the versions of Sophie Steve had encountered. The press demanded some of her with Tony, and when Tony lightly put his arm around her waist, Steve noticed that her hands were clenched into fists, although her face showed no signs of any emotion but photogenic pleasure. She was allowed to make her escape after the pictures and melted into the crowd with so fast he wondered how much practice she’d had.

Finally, Pepper wrangled the press away from their incessant photo-taking with promises of interviews with politicians and celebrities, and Steve headed back to the trees. Bruce had gotten sidetracked into a conversation with the serious scientists, and everyone else could fend for themselves.

Sophie wasn’t behind the trees, but he found her again at a little table nearby, mostly obscured by a wire deer wrapped in Christmas lights. She was fiddling with her bag.

“You’re surprisingly good at that,” he said.

“What, losing things in my purse?” she asked. “I could win medals at losing things in my purse.”

“I meant the photographs,” he said. “You made it look like it was normal.”

 “I’ve had a lot of practice,” she said. “A by-product of being a part of one of the socialite families. Posing for press is one of the core courses at the prep schools.” She looked up at him. “That was a joke by the way. I never went to a prep school, I have no idea what they teach.”

“Did you lose something?” he asked, nodding at her purse.

“No, I doubt it. I could’ve sworn I put it in there, but it’s equally likely I left it on the kitchen counter or something. It doesn’t really matter.”

“I’m going to get a drink. You want anything?” he asked.

“I’d love some water,” she said. “Posing gracefully for the picture vultures makes me surprisingly thirsty.”

 

Steve tipped the bartender and took the drinks, mulling over how to ask her out for something more serious than coffee. He debated asking someone for advice, but the only people he actually knew were the team and some SHIELD agents and he doubted any of them would have useful advice. Plus he didn’t feel the need to start any “Captain America’s secret girlfriend!” headlines. He’d been through that once already. He reached the table behind the garish deer, but Sophie wasn’t at it. He dropped off his drink and looked around, spotting a glimpse of her wine colored dress through the branches of the trees they were behind earlier. He walked toward it. As he got closer he could hear her talking to someone in the tone of voice she usually reserved for patrons who wouldn’t return their books. Steve sped up, but the ebb and flow of the crowd hampered his progression.

“I said, I’m fine.”

“Just one little drink won’t hurt,” said an unfamiliar voice, slightly slurred from the consumption of probably quite a few little drinks.

“Go away,” said Sophie, her voice cold with anger, “or I will have you thrown out.”

Steve rounded the trees just in time to see the man, definitely drunk and also possibly suicidal say “Aw, c’mon sweetheart, at least dance with me.”

“Ugh,” said Sophie, and pressed what Steve thought had been an earring, up ‘til now. “Kevin, I need a hand behind the trees by Tony’s horrible electric deer,” she said, apparently to no one. She caught sight of Steve, finally.

“Are you all right, Sophia?” he asked.

“I’m fine. But I really, really hate parties.”

The drunk turned to look at Steve.

“I suggest you leave,” said Steve, his voice hard. “Before you do something you’ll regret.”

“Who d’you think you are, Cap’n America?” asked the drunk. Sophie started to grin, but the man didn’t wait for an answer before turning back to her. “We were just gonna have a little drink, weren’t we darlin’?” he said. And then before either Sophie or Steve registered it, he reached out and grabbed her wrist. Sophie froze, staring at her hand in what looked like terror. Steve reached the man in one long stride, and punched him in the face. Not hard, or at least not Captain America hard, but hard enough so he dropped like a stone.

“Are you alright?” Steve asked. Sophie was still staring at her arm, unmoving. “Sophia? Sophie!”

She looked up at him, her eyes unseeing, and started backing away. “No,” she whispered.

Movement caught Steve’s eye and he looked around to see Tony and some security rounding the trees. Tony took in the scene, Sophie terrified, Steve urgently saying her name, and a stranger unconscious on the floor.

“What happened?” he demanded.

“This guy grabbed her wrist and—“ Steve started, but Tony cut him off.

“Kevin, deal with the drunk. Tim, go get Natasha right now” He turned to Sophie. “Soph. Soph, are you with us? Are you ok?”

She looked at him. “No,” she said. “Not now. Why now. Tony. I—I can’t—“

“I know, Soph, don’t think about it, I’m just gonna take you into the hall and we’ll deal with this like we do, ok? It’ll be fine, it’ll all be ok.” Tony kept up this litany of soothing nonsense as he guided Sophie through the service door. Steve followed a few steps behind, unsure what to do.

“Cap, I need you to find her purse,” said Tony, without looking up. Steve dashed back out and grabbed the small black bag, nearly colliding with Natasha on the way back to the door.

“What happened?” Natasha asked.

“A drunk guy grabbed her.”

“Shit.” She sprinted through the door, Steve at her heels.

Sophie was sitting on the floor, hugging her knees, her back the wall, her head down, her breath coming in short gasps like tearless sobs. Tony was kneeling in front of her, still murmuring soothing nothings. The security team had spread out in a protective circle, guarding the all the doors.

Natasha sat down beside her and pulled her close, rocking back and forth slightly and speaking quietly in Russian.  Tony looked up, and Steve tossed him the bag, which he dumped on the floor.

“Shit. Guys, it’s not here.”

Natasha’s Russian turned into something that sounded like swearing. “Someone get Clint. Right now.”

Steve ran out again, grateful for a mission, any mission. He found Clint talking to a couple of girls. Clint took one look at his face and said “Sorry ladies, duty calls,” slipping away from their protests.

“What happened?” he asked, quietly.

“Sophia,” was all Steve said. Clint glanced at him, his face full of worry. “The door by the electric deer,” said Steve, and Clint slipped away through the crowd, somehow unnoticed despite his speed. Steve followed at a fast walk, not wanting to draw more attention to what was happening. Bruce caught sight of him and peeled away from the scientists, giving him an enquiring look.

“Sophia,” said Steve, again. “A drunk guy grabbed her wrist. So I punched him. And then whatever was supposed to be in her bag wasn’t.”

Bruce frowned. “That’s not good. We should grab a bottle of water.” Steve didn’t even question the apparent non sequitor, but said “I was bringing her one before. It should still be by the trees.”

They found it and hurried through the service door in time to see Tony shaking pills from a bottle and saying “Someone go get some—“

“Water,” said Steve, and held the bottle out to Natasha. She took it and the pills from Tony and kneeled in front of Sophie.

Steve watched, uselessly, waiting until the universe presented him with some way to help, or at least something else to punch. He didn’t notice when Thor came through the door, apparently drawn by nothing more than an awareness of something wrong in his team. He watched as Natasha somehow convinced Sophie to take the medication, and then watched as her gasping turned into wracking sobs, which finally turned to deep, shuddering breaths. Eventually Sophie stilled, her breathing normal and body not held stiff with fear. Tony closed his eyes as if in silent prayer and Steve let out a long breath he didn’t even know he was holding. After a moment she looked up.

“Sorry,” was all she said. Tony waved her apology away.

“No harm done. Someone will take you and Natasha back the Tower whenever you’re ready.” Natasha helped Sophie up, and commandeered a security guy’s coat for her. As Natasha and the security walked her to the exit, she caught sight of Steve.

“See why I hate these parties?” she said. Steve couldn’t help but smile, and she gave him a tight half smile in return as she walked down the hall.

Tony looked after her, his jaw clenched. “Well that was a nice note to the evening. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to have a lengthy discussion with a man about the concept of consent.” He started for the door, saying “Don’t come out all at once, I don’t want to draw more attention than we already have.”

Clint looked around, noticing Bruce for the first time. “Well, that was better than the last time, at least,” he said. Bruce nodded.

“What happened?” asked Thor.

“A drunk guy grabbed Sophie,” said Clint.

“Where is this drunkard now?” asked Thor, an edge to his voice. “I wish to teach him manners.”

“Tony has him,” said Bruce. “And Steve already decked him, so I think the lesson is well in hand.”

“You punched him, Cap?” asked Clint. Steve nodded absently.

“In the face,” he said. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Although now that he thought about it, his reaction seemed unusual. Knocking out drunk strangers was not something he usually did these days, preferring to hand them over to the police.

“Did Lady Sophia experience what you mortals call a panic attack?” asked Thor, having a vague awareness of such things since Tony’s experiences after the whole Loki-Invades-New-York thing.

“No,” said Bruce as Clint reentered the ballroom. “That’s what happens when Sophie doesn’t have a panic attack.”

Steve didn’t hear them. He hadn’t moved, his eyes still on the door where Sophie exited. As she left, she had turned and given him a small wave, and in that moment his mind finally presented him the reason he’d punched out a grabby, drunken, total stranger.

He was in love with her.

Damn.

 

 

 

* * *

 

“We need to talk.”

Natasha stood over Sophie, who was curled up on a couch in her apartment, buried deep in a book.

“Mm,” she said, turning the page. It was Sunday, two days after the fiasco of a Christmas party. Christmas, actual Christmas, was in three days, and Natasha wanted to get this conversation done with before she left with Clint. And she judged that now might be the only time she might actually reach Sophie. She was recovered enough from the incident that she wouldn’t fall apart, but still fragile enough Natasha’s words would make an impact. That was the hope, anyway.

“Sophie,” she said. “I’m serious.”

Sophie dragged her eyes away from her book.

“Shouldn’t you be packing or something?”

“It can wait,” said Natasha. She stared pointedly at the book still open in Sophie’s hands. Sophie sighed and closed it.

“What is it this time?” she asked. “If this is you wanting me to drop hints to Clint about what to get you again, I already tried and I think I would need to drop an anvil with your Christmas list on it on his head for him to get the hint.”

“No,” said Natasha. “This is about the party.”

Sophie shifted uncomfortably.

“And Steve.”

“Steve?” said Sophie, raising an eyebrow. “What does Steve have to do with my latest rather spectacular public display?”

“You still haven’t told him. About anything.”

Sophie looked down, biting her lip.

“It’s been nearly a year, Sophie. He knows there’s something going on. No one’s told him anything, but he’s not stupid. And he was there on Friday. You can’t keep him in the dark much longer.”

Sophie sighed. “Tash, I—”

“And he’s halfway in love with you,” Natasha continued. “At least.”

Sophie stared at her, expression carefully guarded.

“But you knew that already, I see” said Natasha. She sat down on the couch.

“Do you love him?” she asked. Sophie closed her eyes and let out a breath, her forehead creased as if in pain.

“I don’t know. And even if I did, would it matter? I can’t—there’s no—” she stopped, frustrated.

“You need to tell him,” said Natasha, as gently as she could. “Even nothing ever happens. Especially if nothing ever happens. It’s not fair to him.”

Sophie looked at her, her eyes full of hurt and shadows.

“And if I do tell him? What will happen then? What if—” she stopped again. “Natasha, I don’t want to lose him. I don’t know if I can go through something like that. Again.”

“Sophie, he deserves to know the truth. He deserves to know why it’s been a year and you haven’t done anything but coffee. He’s a good man, and he deserves the chance to make up his own mind about it.”

Sophie sighed and nodded. “You’re right. Damn you.”  
  
“I usually am,” said Natasha. She stood up. “And so are you. I should be packing. And now I also apparently have to wrap my Christmas list around an anvil and drop it on Clint’s head.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kudos. My beta and I appreciate them.

The week between Christmas and New Year’s was quiet. Steve was grateful. The lead up to Christmas, party included, had been hellish, full of “good PR opportunities” which generally meant shaking hands with slimy politicians while standing in front of hospitals handing out toys, smiling and posing for endless photographs. By the end of it, he was almost happy to spend Christmas alone. Tony had whisked Pepper and Sophie off to California, Thor was in Asgard, and Clint and Natasha were off skiing or something. Bruce spent Christmas Eve and Day holed up in his lab, and Steve wondered if he even knew it what day it was. Steve spent most of his little break in the common area, enjoying having the television and couch to himself. The night before New Year’s Eve, he spent the entire evening catching up on one of his beloved talent competitions, which he never got to watch out there because he knew what would happen if anyone got wind that he liked them.

He must’ve drifted off, because the next thing he knew he was in a plane over the ocean.

“There's not enough time,” he heard himself say. “This thing's moving too fast and it's heading for New York. I gotta put her in the water.”

“Please don't do this. W-we have time. We can work it out,” said a woman’s voice.

“This is my choice,” said Steve, as he grabbed the controls. The dream shifted. He was on train, watching man fall into the snow far below him. Bucky. No. No, God, please no.

He was running through a room full of men strapped to tables, desperate to get to…somewhere, before something awful happened. He slammed through a door and found himself back on the plane just as it hit the ocean. He heard the unseen woman say “Steve?” desperation in her voice. He couldn’t answer. The glass cracked and water poured in, enclosing him in the dark, and the cold.

“Steve?” he heard again. He was so cold.

“Steve. Steve wake up.” Someone was shaking him. His eyes flew open. The person stopped shaking him and stepped back, an indistinct shape in the darkness.

“You ok?” it asked, and then said “Can we have a little light JARVIS?” A lamp in the corner flicked on. His world came further into focus and he realized who it was.

“Sophia? I didn’t know you were back.” He sat up and noticed he was shivering slightly.

“We just got back. I came to raid the kitchen.” She looked at him in concern. “Are you cold? You left a window open. In December.”

Well that explained something anyway. “I’m fine,” he said, looking at his hands. “I was just…dreaming.” He felt her green eyes on him and looked up.

“Nightmares,” she said. It wasn’t a question. She moved toward the kitchen. “I’m gonna make some tea. You want chamomile or mint?”

“Uh…whatever you’re having is fine,” he said, taken back by the abrupt change of subject. He heard her switching on the electric kettle and opening cupboards, the small homey noises dispelling the remnants of the dream. He started to feel better. In an hour or two he might even stop shivering. She came around the couch and held out a steaming mug. He wrapped his hands around it, grateful for the warmth.

Sophie sat down next to him, tucking her feet under her. She regarded him over her own mug.

“You wanna talk about it?” she asked. He looked at her in mild surprise. “You don’t have to,” she added.

“No, it’s…it’s fine. It’s nothing new. I’ve been having the dreams since I…woke up. I haven’t had one in a while though, I thought maybe they’d stopped.” He took a sip of the tea. Chamomile.  “Apparently not, I guess.”

She said nothing, but somehow the silence felt like an invitation to continue. He stared at the wall, trying to find words.

“Usually…usually the dreams are about the war. I saw things…things not in the official records because no one even had the words for them. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d lived science fiction. Sometimes they’re about people I’ve lost, people I couldn’t save. Erskine. Bucky. Sometimes I dream about—about the plane.” He stopped, not sure he could continue.

“Tonight?” she asked, softly.

“It was so cold,” he said, quietly, staring at the wall, unseeing. “The water. That’s what I remember. I was mostly unconscious, but I remember. So cold.”

He felt a gentle touch and turned to look. Sophie’s hand was on his arm and her expression held no pity, no discomfort, only kindness. And what looked like understanding. After a long moment she withdrew, settling back into the corner of the couch and taking a sip of tea. Steve cleared his throat.

“Anyway…” he said. “Did you have a good Christmas?” She shrugged.

“It was alright. But you would not believe the new house Tony’s building out there.”

“Oh?” he said. “Try me.”

 

They talked for a while, drinking their tea, a midnight version of their Friday coffees. Eventually Sophie caught sight of the clock and cursed.

“It’s nearly four in the morning,” she said. “I have to be up in five hours. Damn.” She looked at him. “What is it about being with you that always makes me lose track of time?”

He smiled at her, crookedly. “I don’t know. My all American charm? Why do you have to be up tomorrow anyway? Isn’t New Year’s Eve a holiday?”

“I promised Pepper I’d help with the party. The catering company has been a nightmare this year, and the librarian voice always gets people to do what they’re supposed to.”

“Party?” asked Steve. Sophie looked at him askance.

“The Tower party? For New Years? You are going, aren’t you?”

“I hadn’t decided yet. But you are? I thought—” He bit back a comment about what happened at the Christmas party. “I thought you didn’t like parties,” he finished.

“Mostly, yes,” she said. “But the New Year’s party is not like Tony’s other charity balls or company parties. It’s smaller, for one thing, and I don’t have to wear a ball gown. There’re usually only a couple hundred people these days, at the most. And it’s the New Year. All about hope and new beginnings and looking forward to the future. I like that,” she said, sounding faintly wistful.

“Anyway,” she said. “You should come. It’ll be great.” He held up his hands in surrender.

“I’ll come. If you’re going…”

She looked pleased. “Great. It should be a lot of fun. And now I really do have to go to bed.” She headed for the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Or later today, rather. Good night, Cap.”

“Sophia?”

She paused in the doorway, looking over to where he still sat on the couch.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks,” he said. “For the tea. And the…the talk.”

“No problem.” She smiled at him softly. “You’re not the only one with nightmares, you know,” she said. And then she was gone, leaving Steve to ponder the meaning of that particular comment.

_____________________

Steve looked at his reflection. It was a nice suit, charcoal grey and slim cut in the modern style, and custom made for him. Steve had to admit it looked good.

But it felt wrong. Although he did enjoy his new life, there were times he missed the days when his wardrobe consisted of army uniforms and the blue armor. An army uniform never looked out of place.

There was a knock at the door. Steve answered it. A man who Steve vaguely recognized held a garment bag and a small box, both of which he offered to Steve.

“Mister Stark asked that you have this, Captain Rogers,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Steve, taking it, confused. “I already have a suit, though.”

“He wanted you to have an alternate option, I believe, sir.”

Steve shut the door, bemused, and hung the bag from his closet door, unzipped it and stopped dead.

A mess uniform. Tony had sent him a mess uniform. Steve sat down on his bed and stared at it for a while, not even knowing what to feel.

 

Someone knocked at the door again.

“Hey Cap, you in there? It’s Tony. Can I come in?”

Steve blinked. “Yeah, sure.”

Tony walked in, adjusting his cuffs. “You got it then, I see,” he said nodding at the bag. Steve turned to look at him.

“I—I don’t know what to say.”

Tony looked amused. “’Thank you’ would about cover it,” he said. “You opened the box yet?”

Steve shook his head, reached for the box and flipped it open. Inside were the regulation miniatures of every medal he’d ever received. He still had the full size ones too, safe in a box in his closet. They’d been here, waiting for him, the day he moved into Stark Tower. It turned out Howard had kept them, along with Steve’s other affects, in some archive somewhere, and Tony in one of his more thoughtful moments had found them and returned them to their owner.

He stared at the ribbons, running his fingers over the little pieces of his life. He remembered how he’d won each and every one. He turned to look at Tony.

“Thank you,” he said. “I don’t even…thank you.”

“Consider it a late Christmas present. And as much as I’d like to take all the credit, it was Sophie’s idea.”

Steve blinked.

“Yeah,” said Tony. “She’s a thoughtful girl, a helluva lot more thoughtful than the rest of her family, me included. And she likes you. A feeling which I’ve noticed is mutual.”

Steve opened his mouth to say something, but Tony held up a hand.

“Before you say anything, let me finish. I didn’t come here to play the protective older brother role and warn you off. Sophie’s a grown woman and I’d like nothing better than for her to find some happiness. As you’ve probably guessed by now, she has not had an easy time of it. Our Sophie has walls, but unless I’m much mistaken, she’s about to let them down for you, which, let me tell you, I thought would happen the day we could ice skate in Hell. So just…just try not to fuck it up, all right?”

Steve didn’t even know what to say, so he just nodded.

“Good,” said Tony, and checked his watch. “Party’s in twenty minutes, so you better get suited up, soldier.”

* * *

 

Cap entered the ballroom, very much Cap and not Steve in his uniform, emanating a quiet and unselfconscious confidence not present since he got out of the ice, except in combat. People turned toward him as he walked in, his arrival creating almost a ripple effect in the crowd. An effect he didn’t notice, because he was looking for Sophie. He paused and scanned the room, spotting various members of his team, but not her.

“Hello Captain,” said a quiet voice behind him. He turned, a smile on his face.

“Hello, Miss Carbonell,” he began, and stopped, the power of speech temporarily abandoning him. She looked…amazing. She reminded him of the film stars from his youth, her hair pulled in waves over one shoulder, the green satin dress hugging her body and falling to the knee, making her green eyes almost unreal and turning her hair gold. She was, noticed Steve, wearing t-strap pumps. And, adorably, her glasses.

A laugh lit up her face. “I thought we stopped doing that, Steve.” She looked him over. “Nice outfit.”

“Thanks,” he said. “It was a very thoughtful gift from a friend of mine.” She ducked her head and Steve thought he saw her blush.

“I’m glad you like it,” she said. “And that you came.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” he said. She smiled again.

“I can only stop for a sec, I just wanted to say hi. I have to go marshal the catering staff. But the minute they can be trusted not to mix up the gluten free cupcakes with the vegan ones, I’ll be back out. In the meantime, grab a drink and some food and enjoy yourself. The gang’s all here, so you won’t be totally lost without me.”

This was yet another Sophie, Sophie the charming socialite hostess, different from both the librarian and the Friday coffee/team dinner companion, but Steve liked her. She was self-assured and seemed to be having fun.

“Aye-aye, ma’am,” he said, throwing half a joking salute. She grinned.

“See you later,” she said, as she walked away. She stopped and turned halfway around.

“Oh, and Cap?”

“Yes?”

“Um. Save me a dance?”

A slow, unbelieving smile spread across his face.

“You got it, miss.”

 

Sophie didn’t reappear for at least another hour, but Steve didn’t mind that much. She had been telling the truth when she said this party was not like the others. For one thing, the shallow celebrities, unpleasantly slippery politicians and all their ilk were conspicuously absent. Despite the amount of people in the room, they all seemed to be at least good friends with someone he knew, and they mostly seemed to all know each other. Tony introduced him to a man he referred to as Rhodey, who turned out to be a Lieutenant Colonel, there with a group of his army buddies, and they spent an enjoyable time swapping war stories, eventually joined by both Clint and Natasha. Steve’s stories were by far the weirdest, and the sight of a pack of grizzled career military kept enthralled by a man apparently half their age telling stories out of science fiction was one of the strangest things Natasha had ever seen, including alien invasions and the collapse of the Soviet Union.

Steve was so enjoying himself he didn’t notice when Sophie returned from directing the appropriate placement of cupcakes until Natasha left the group to go join her. Steve told one last story, about the time HYDRA opened a wormhole into what Steve now knew was one of Thor’s nine worlds, and the ensuing disaster, and then made his excuses, stopping by the bar on the way to Sophie and Natasha’s table.

She looked up from her food as he set a drink in front of her and raised an eyebrow.

“Ginger ale,” he said. She chuckled. Steve grinned as he sat down. At this point, he would do almost anything to get her to laugh.

“You’re officially my favorite,” she said. “I’ve been working since ten this morning and I don’t think I’ve sat down once ‘til now. Or eaten anything since about one.”

Natasha made a disapproving noise.

“At least I’m eating now!” Sophie protested. “I had to wrangle the cupcakes. Very tricky things, cupcakes.”

“There are cupcakes?” said Natasha, swinging her head around towards the dessert table.

“Uh-huh. Red velvet even. And peanut butter cup,” said Sophie, pushing her plate away.

“I may need to investigate these cupcakes,” said Natasha, getting up. “In case of…trickiness.”

Sophie looked at Steve, mischief dancing in her eyes.

“I agree, Agent Romanov,” said Steve, deadpan. “You should investigate the possibility of pastry chicanery. I’ll stay here and keep a look out.”

Sophie snorted. Natasha shot them a dirty look as she walked away, headed towards the desserts, and they both erupted into laughter. Sophie sat back in her chair, taking off her glasses and rubbing her eyes. She sighed.

“Long day?” asked Steve. She nodded.

“But worth it,” she said. “I love New Year’s.” The music changed and she smiled. “And this song,” she said.

 “Well then.” Steve stood up. She looked at him questioningly.

“I believe I promised you a dance, Miss Carbonell,” he said. “And I keep my promises.” He held out a hand.

“I would expect no less of you, Captain Rogers,” she answered, taking it.

 

The song, fortunately, worked for a foxtrot, one of the few dances Steve actually knew. As they danced, he realized this was the closest he’d ever been to her, but he felt none of the awkwardness that generally characterized his life around women. It just felt…nice. Right. And she smelled like apples. He met her eyes and smiled.

“You actually know how to dance,” she said, sounding delighted.

“In my day,” he said, spinning her, “everyone knew how to dance. Even a skinny little asthmatic from Brooklyn.” She laughed. “Not that that guy ever got a chance to dance much,” he continued. “And certainly not with a girl like you.”

This time he was sure he saw her blush. He grinned.

“Having a good time?” she asked. “At the party, I mean.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s…definitely not like Christmas. It’s really nice actually. Everyone here just seems like…real people.”

She nodded. “The Christmas party is for Stark Industries and PR and Iron Man and the glamour. New Years is for…family. For us anyway. Some of my best memories are from the New Year’s parties. Even before I moved out here, I always helped plan it, every year since I was old enough. Well, most years, anyway. It was my Aunt Maria’s idea, back in the day, to keep New Years a small gathering for close friends after the insanity of Christmas.” She caught Steve’s expression of disbelief as he looked around at the few hundred people and laughed. “Small for a socialite family at least.”

“You really actually know all these people?” he asked.

“Oh no,” she said. “But someone I know does. Like, I’ve never met Rhodey’s army guys before tonight. But he knows and trusts them, and Tony knows and trusts him, and that’s good enough for me.” Steve nodded.

“I get that. The brother of my brother…” he said. She tilted her head enquiringly at him.

“It’s something I used to say. In the war. My team—my old team—I meant it when I said I had more brothers than I knew what to do with once I joined the Army. We were in a lot of unfriendly places, relying on someone only one of us knew, or a friend of someone only one of us knew. Once, in Russia, one of those men asked me why we trusted him, why he should trust us, if the enemy of his enemy was his friend. And I looked at him, and I said no. But the brother of my brother…”

She just looked at him, shaking her head and smiling.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing. It’s just…you’re so unfalteringly good. And you don’t even try. You just are. I’d say they don’t make people like that anymore, but I’m pretty sure they didn’t make them like that then either. It’s just you.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, twirling her again. “They still make ‘em pretty good these days.”

She spun back into his arms, their eyes meeting as he said “The librarians, for example, are even better today. Or at least the one I know.”

Her expression changed, becoming unreadable, and she faltered. He stopped.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Did I—“

“No, no it’s not you,” she said. “I just…I think I need to sit down.” She looked at him and the ghost of a smile passed over her face. “I think I’ve been working too hard.”

He wasn’t about to disagree with that, but he could tell there was something else wrong, even if she didn’t want to tell him. He walked her back to their table.

“Can I get you anything?” he said, as she sat down. “Or anyone?”

“No, I’m fine,” she said. “I just need to sit, I’ll be—“

“You ok, Soph?” said Tony, coming up from behind them. “You want me to get Tasha?” Sophie’s mouth quirked in irritation.

“I’m fine, Tony. I’m probably just dehydrated.”

“You sure?” he asked, apparently unwilling to let it go. “If you need to go upstairs or something, we can—“

“Dammit, Tony, I said I’m fine,” she said, her voice sharp.

“Everything ok?” Clint came to stand between Tony and Steve, trying, and failing, to look nonchalant. “Should I find Tash?”

Sophie looked from Tony to Clint, her jaw clenched. Steve again had the distinct feeling he was missing some vital piece of information. Or several pieces. She stood up abruptly. “I’m going outside for some air.”

“We’ll come with you,” said Clint. She stared at him for a long moment.

“No, Clint, you will not. If you have the pressing need to feel useful, you can go find my coat. Tony, you can come because I need to talk to you.” She started walking towards the door. Steve stood there, not knowing what was going on or what he should be doing. She cocked an eyebrow at him.

“You coming?”

“I guess,” he said. “If you want me to.” She gave him a half smile. “Please. I can only stand Tony alone for so long, you know.”

They ended up at the doors of the little landscaped park behind the building, waiting for Clint to appear with Sophie’s coat. It was snowing lightly outside. Sophie and Tony were having a fierce whispered conversation that didn’t entirely sound like an argument, while Steve stood a little to the side and tried not to overhear, a difficult task for a man with superhuman hearing.

“Are you sure?” Tony was asking.

“I have to sometime,” said Sophie. “I can’t—I mean, Tasha was right. But it would probably be better if he had some idea of—“

“I got it,” said Tony. “How much?”

“Just the basics,” said Sophie. Clint reappeared, holding her coat. “Sophie, you sure about this?” he asked. She shrugged on her coat, rolling her eyes, and walked outside, Clint following.

Tony walked over to Steve.

“Anyone want to fill me in on why a walk outside is cause for the mother hen routine?” Steve asked, heading towards the door. Tony fell into step beside him.

“C’mon Cap, you never know when someone’s gonna try and kidnap Iron Man’s favorite cousin,” said Tony, who was constitutionally incapable of being serious most of the time. “Lucky for me, we have Captain America to play bodyguard.”

“Tony,” said Steve, annoyed.

“Yeah, I know. Turns out I was right about what I said earlier today about Sophie’s walls. But I may have been understating it when I said she hasn’t had an easy time of it. Our Sophie, as you may have realized, has something of a panic disorder, not without good cause. You really do never know when someone’s gonna try to kidnap Iron Man’s favorite cousin, and you actually do get to play bodyguard.”

Steve stared at Tony in surprise, pausing at the door. “You mean, she—“

“It’s not my story, Cap. It’s hers. She’ll tell you. In a minute, probably. But the rules for being my favorite cousin’s bodyguard for the night…Stick close, but don’t touch her unless she touches you or she’s in real danger. And keep her safe. I know you care about her as much as the rest of us. And she trusts you. More than you know.”

Tony stopped as they joined the other two. Sophie slipped her arm through Steve’s.

“C’mon,” she said. “If I have to listen to Clint’s fussing for another minute I think I’ll kick him.”

Clint gave her a dirty look, but said “If you need anything, I’ll be right over here.”

“Oh my god, Clint, you’re worse than my mother,” Sophie called over her shoulder as they walked away.

“Sorry,” she said, once they were out of earshot. “They can be a bit—well—“

“They care about you,” said Steve. They reached a bench and sat down, watching the snow fall. “We all do.”

She gave him a funny look, but said nothing. Neither did he, he just sat, waiting.

“What Tony told you,” she began, but stopped. “I mean. What happened to me, I would’ve told you sooner, but…But I…” She trailed off again. “Sorry. This is a bit…”

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” said Steve. She sighed.

“I do, though. It’s just…difficult. To talk about it. Still. It’s been a while now, and it’s still…But you deserve the truth, at least. Even if I can’t give you anything else.” She stopped again, staring down at her hands. He watched her as she wrestled some internal demon, wishing he could help, somehow.

“Natasha…” she said, finally. “Natasha thinks you’re halfway in love with me.”

He stared at her. Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. She looked up, her green eyes meeting his blue ones.

“Is she right?”

He let out a breath and ran a hand through his hair.

“She…she wouldn’t be wrong,” he said. Underestimating, possibly—definitely—but not wrong. Sophie nodded, her gaze dropping to her hands again.

“Natasha also thinks that I’m at least half in love with you. And she’s right. I think.”

Steve watched her, saying nothing, trying not to hope too much and finding that very difficult.

“But I’m…I’m pretty fucked up, Steve. In the head.” She looked over at him again. “What they did to me…” she trailed off again. “Do you mind if we keep walking?” she asked. “It’s easier to talk about this when I’m moving.”

They set off around the garden, Sophie’s hands firmly in her pockets, her posture tense and poised as if for flight.

“Anyway,” she continued. “It messed me up. Physically and mentally. My body healed, but my brain…freaks out. Sometimes. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, with a side order of panic attacks is the official diagnosis, but there’s some other fun stuff in the mix too. Basically, I’m crazy, and anything can set me off. Dreams. Being startled. Being touched, which I’m sure you realized at Christmas. I’ve gotten better at coping over the last year or so, with a lot of help, but it’s still…I’m still…well. Especially around men. I was hurt, and the people who hurt me were men, and that left me with…issues. What they did to me…I don’t actually remember a lot of it. But what I do remember…”

She stopped talking, her voice tight. Steve saw her eyes glitter in the streetlights.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, echoing her words to him from the previous night. “You don’t have to. But I’m here. I’ll listen. Whatever you want to tell me, I’ll listen.”

She paused in her walking, turned toward him, and let out a little noise, half laugh, half sob.

“You mean that, don’t you? You actually mean that.” She stared at him, trying to read his face, looking for judgment, for pity, for worry, for pain, for anything she usually encountered when telling her story, and finding none of it. He just stared back, calmly, waiting.

“The hell with it,” she muttered. “You asked.”

And she told him. Standing there in the snow, their breath hanging in foggy clouds, she told him what they’d done to her, detailing the memories of her two weeks in captivity. It was both exactly what Steve had thought and worse than he was able to imagine, the litany of pain and humiliation and terror delivered in a flat, quiet voice almost eerily devoid of emotion. And Steve listened, taking in her hurt, his anger building at those unnamed, faceless men. He promised himself they’d pay, when he found them, for the pain they’d caused Sophia—his Sophia. He promised that of all their sins, they’d pay most for making her feel broken and unworthy.

“And then one time the door opened and it was SHIELD,” said Sophie, her story nearly done. “Led by Natasha and Clint, actually. That’s how I met them. They rescued me. By accident, mostly, they were apparently after my kidnappers for some other reasons, but they won’t tell me why. You know how SHIELD is. I spent a month in a hospital, and the panic attacks started once they got me home and the morphine wore off. My family…they didn’t know how to deal with it. I spent some time in a few different institutions, some of which were pretty helpful. I finally got well enough to do things like walk down the street without freaking out and Tony offered me a job and place to stay, and the best doctors in the world—the ones that helped him through the fallout of the invasion. And I thought…y’know, what the hell. If anyone is tolerant of abnormal, if anyone could make me feel safe, it’s probably a bunch of superheroes. So I came. And it helped. I’ve been getting better. I think. But I’m still pretty fucked up.”

They looked at each other for a long moment.

“Thank you for telling me,” Steve said, eventually. “For trusting me.”

She stared at him, her mouth open in surprise. And then, unbelievably, she began to laugh, the tightness and pain in her face and body dissolving into helpless giggles. Despite himself, Steve began to grin.

“That’s it?” she asked, when she could speak again, wiping her eyes. “That’s really all you have to say?”

He shrugged, and they started to walk again. “What else is there to say? Bad things happened to you. You survived. I admire that. I don’t accept that you’re broken, at least not in the way you think you are. You survived, you’re working on healing and you’re stronger than you believe.”

They came to a bench and she sat down, shaking her head, but she said nothing. He sat down next to her.

“I do have some questions though. If that’s alright.”

“Yeah,” she said, not looking at him. “I mean, it’s not like I have much to hide at this point.”

“What…what happened to the men who did this?” Steve tried to his voice calm, quiet, but Sophie heard the underlying steel in his tone. She laughed, the sharp, bitter exhalation of breath of someone unsurprised by how disappointing the world is.

“Nothing. We never found them. SHIELD rounded up some underlings, but none of them really knew anything. Or they just wouldn’t talk. I don’t…I don’t even know what they wanted. Or who they were. There was never a ransom demand, never a real hint about why I was there, other than as…entertainment. I think that’s the worst part. They destroyed my life and I’ll never even know why.”

“We’ll find them,” said Steve, flatly, as if he could reshape reality with words alone.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Captain,” said Sophie, the lightness of her tone failing to disguise the shadows in her eyes.

“I never do,” said Steve. “One more question,” he continued.

“What about…us? I mean. Is there an us? Do you want there to be?”

She sighed, rubbed her face.

“I don’t know, Steve. I like you. A lot. I might even love you. But I don’t know if I’ll ever be…normal. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to handle the…physical side of a relationship. I don’t know if you’d be able to deal with my idiosyncrasies, emotionally. It’s lost me more than one relationship—I mean, I was even engaged, before…and when I came back he couldn’t deal with it. But I…”

She looked up at him, the hope in her eyes filling his heart.

“I would like to try. If you want,” she finished. He nodded, smiling gently at her.

“I’d like that,” he said. And then he opened his arms to her, and she, slowly, carefully, came into his embrace. He held her, softly, and leaned his head against the top of hers.

“We’d have to go slow,” she said, after a moment. “Like, really slow.” He chuckled.

“Slow is good. I don’t…I mean, it’s not like I have a lot of experience anyway.” She pulled back slightly and looked up at him.

“Really?” she said. “But you’re so…”

“So what?” he asked, grinning.

“Gorgeous,” she said. “And sweet. And funny.” He blushed. She noticed. “And that is adorable,” she said, smiling.

“I was in a war,” he said. “War doesn’t leave much time for romance. And neither does being frozen, for that matter.”

A loud cheer rose from the building, complete with air horns and noisemakers. Across the city, fireworks exploded in the sky. Sophie turned to watch them, leaving one of Steve’s arms wrapped around her shoulders. She leaned her head on his shoulder.

“Happy New Year, Cap,” she said. “Here’s to new beginnings.”

“Amen to that,” he said, looking down at her golden head and smiling.

They stayed like that for a while, watching the fireworks, until Sophie finally admitted she was freezing. They headed back hand in hand. As they got in view of the doors, Steve looked down at their clasped hands.

“They’ll notice,” he said. “And so will the press, probably. I don’t mind, if you don’t, but I think you might.”

She sighed. “You’re right.” He let go of her hand and offered her his arm. She took it, smiling.

At the door, as Steve suspected they might, they found the rest of the team, including Pepper and Jane Foster, watching the fireworks in the frozen air. Or at least, that was their admitted reason for all congregating on the steps. No one said anything, but Tony whispered something to Pepper, making her smile, and Natasha looked overly pleased with life. They all rejoined the ballroom for toasts, trying to teach Thor to pull one of those little popper bottles full of streamers, everyone getting increasingly gigglier with each bottle of champagne.

Eventually, as the last guests left, and the team members headed off to their respective rooms, Sophie turned to Steve.

“I need to find my bed before I pass out in one of the chairs,” she said. “Walk me up?”

They found a vacant elevator, and as the doors slid shut, Steve’s hand hovered over the buttons. He realized he had no idea which floor she lived on.

“Five,” she said. “Right above the library.”

The elevator started and she stumbled against him. “Whoops,” she said. “Maybe that last glass of champagne wasn’t a good idea.”

“Are you drunk, Miss Carbonell?” he asked in mock severity as he steadied her.

“No, no,” she said. “Maybe just a little bit tipsy.” She looked at him in annoyance. “I don’t know why you’re not, you drank at least as much as the rest of us. Except for Thor. No one drinks as much as Thor.”

“I can’t get drunk,” he said, as the doors opened and they walked into the hall. “A side-effect of the serum. Usually it’s more annoying than useful, but at least my unshakeable sobriety means I can escort slightly tipsy girls safely home.”

Sophie giggled. “The slightly tipsy girls are eternally grateful, I’m sure.” She took his hand and set off down the hall, stopping at what Steve assumed was her door. She touched it, the handprint scanner activating the lock. It popped open. She turned.

“Thank you for a wonderful evening, Captain Rogers,” she said, the formality of the phrase belied by the twinkle in her eyes.

“It was my pleasure, Miss Carbonell.”

Her expression changed as they stared at each other, becoming softer and slightly more sober.

“What do you think, Steve?” she asked. “Will this—will we—“

“I was thinking,” said Steve, still holding her hand, his voice quiet, “that you look beautiful in that dress. I meant to tell you earlier.”

She flushed slightly, looking down.

“And I was thinking,” he continued, “that I would like to kiss you. If that would be alright. Not now, necessarily. But sometime.”

She looked up and took a step toward him, closing most of the gap between them.

“I think I’d like that,” she said, her free hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “Now sounds good.”

He relinquished her fingers and ran his hand up her arm, cupping the back of her neck and running his thumb along her jawline, his other hand on the small of her back. She leaned into his touch. She was so close that Steve could see the light dusting of freckles across her nose, which he’d never noticed before. Her green eyes were warm, but with something other than alcohol. Steve thought he recognized it as desire.

He stopped, their noses almost touching.

“Yes?” he asked, unwilling to push her boundaries any more than she wanted.

“Yes,” she whispered, closing the rest of the gap between them.

The kiss was just a touch at first, a feather-light meeting of lips, but Sophie made a small noise in the back of her throat and leaned into him. Steve took this as a positive sign and tentatively deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping along her slightly parted lips. She tasted like champagne and cupcakes, and Steve decided right then cupcakes were his new favorite dessert. Her mouth parted more, the kiss deepening further and she nearly melted against him.

Eventually they pulled apart, Sophie looking slightly dazed, much like how Steve felt.

“Jesus,” she said. “Where did you learn to kiss like that? If that’s what not much experience is like, I don’t even know what you’ll be like after you decide you know what you’re doing.”

He blushed. “Thanks. I think.”

She grinned. “Good night Steve,” she said, opening her door. “Happy New Year.”

“You too, Sophia,” he said, and waited until she slipped through it and it clicked closed behind her. He set off toward the elevator, whistling Auld Lange Syne, and as he walked away he thought he heard her laugh. He grinned. To new beginnings, indeed.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning Steve walked into the common area in search of coffee and found Sophie making pancakes in her pajamas and an apron.

“G’morning,” she said.

“Hi,” he said, reaching for the coffee pot. “You look cute.”

She rolled her eyes at him, but grinned. She held out a plate full of pancakes. He took it, their fingers brushing. It was amazing, he thought, how such a casual touch could make him so happy. Their eyes met over the plate, and Sophie opened her mouth to say something, but the door opened and Natasha and Clint wandered through. They looked a little bit worse for wear.

“Cute,” said Clint, catching sight of their pancake moment.

“Coffee,” said Natasha, plaintively.

“Pancakes?” said Sophie, brightly, waving her skillet underneath Clint’s nose. He backed away, looking green. She snickered.

They sat down in companionable, if slightly hung-over, silence. The rest of the team stumbled in over the next hour, paying for the champagne in varying degrees. Sophie kept up a steady stream of pancakes and eggs for anyone who wanted them, which was mostly Steve and Thor, who weren’t hung over, and Jane and Pepper, who didn’t really drink. Tony sat in a corner, wearing sunglasses and nursing an espresso. Bruce came in and fled at the sight of frying eggs, coming back sometime later, opting for a grapefruit and some seltzer water.

Eventually the pancake requests wound down, and Sophie came to the table with a mug of tea. She sat down next to Steve, her hand next to his on the table, their little fingers touching. The conversation around them stuttered to a halt as the team noticed their hands. Clint opened his mouth as if to say something, but stopped as Natasha elbowed him under the table. He looked at her sourly as she asked Tony a question about one of Rhodey’s army buddies from last night. The conversation started up again, but Steve was aware of undercurrents and unasked questions, of sideways glances and meaningful looks. It reminded him of a story he’d heard about what medieval couples endured after their wedding night.

He caught Sophie’s eye, and by her expression she had noticed too.

“You wanna go for a walk or something?” she asked quietly, underneath Tony regaling them about Rhodey’s army buddy’s adventures. He nodded.

“Great. Meet you at the library in ten. I need actual pants.”

 

* * *

 

 

They went for a walk in Central Park. The snow last night hadn’t stuck, leaving the place slushy and brown, but as Sophie slipped her arm through his again, he thought it was the most beautiful place in the world.

Sunday morning walks joined their routine of team dinners, and Friday coffees, which began to spill into Friday dinner dates. Soon, they were spending more evenings and weekends in each other’s company than not, at first in the common area, and then in Steve’s own apartment after he decided to let her in on his love of the tv talent competitions. With Sophie’s walls down, Steve’s remaining walls came down too. He told her more about his nightmares, about his old team, about Bucky and Erskine and Peggy. She confessed that her “personal days” were linked to her panic attacks, and told him about her time in the psych wards and the institutions. She told him, one night, that the only things that really saved her were working toward her library science degree online and re-runs of Star Trek: The Next Generation, which he then demanded to see and fell in love with.

 

Valentine’s Day drew near and Steve confessed to Sophie he’d never had a Valentine before, which she declared adorable. A week before, Thor caught Steve in the gym.

“Steven!”

“Hey, Thor, what can I do for you?”

“Jane tells me the feast of Saint Valentine approaches.” Steve stifled a grin. Thor’s speech patterns never failed to amuse him.

“In a week,” Steve said.

“Yes,” said Thor. “Jane wanted to know if you and Lady Sophia would like to join us for a...uh…doubled date? At least that is what I think the name is.”

Sophie and Jane had become fairly good friends over the past month, bonding over the anachronistic nature of their respective boyfriends.

“I don’t know,” said Steve. “We haven’t really discussed our plans yet. But I’ll ask her.”

Thor beamed. “Truly, it would be enjoyable to share the feast day with friends,” he said. Steve debated telling him what Valentine’s Day was really about, but decided trying to teach Thor about human romance would be an exercise in futility.

When Steve told Sophie about Thor’s request, she laughed for about ten minutes straight. Steve grinned uncertainly, unsure of what to make of her hilarity.

“I know we haven’t talked about doing anything yet,” he said. “If you don’t want to go…”

She straightened up, wiping her eyes. “Oh no. No, we’re going. I would _pay_ to see Thor try to understand Valentine’s Day. Can you imagine him at one of those French restaurants Tony takes Pepper to all the time? With those—“ she started giggling again—“those little tiny chairs. And the little tiny plates, oh god.”

This image set her off into another gale of laughter, and this time Steve joined in.

They decided, eventually, that a movie and dinner at a diner was probably a better plan, on the basis it’s hard to go wrong with a burger and a shake. The four of them actually had a good time, even if Thor kept making loud comments about the visuals of the fantasy space adventure movie they saw.

“That is not what the sky above the Bifrost looks like,” he said, as Jane tried to hush him, or at least get him to use an inside voice.

“At least he fits in the chairs,” Sophie whispered, giggling.

Steve laughed, softly. “Sorry,” he said. “I meant for this date to be slightly more romantic.”

“Oh no,” she said, leaning her head against his shoulder. “This is the best Valentine’s Day I’ve ever had.”

Looking down at her blonde head in dim theater, Steve had to agree.

* * *

 

Sophie hadn’t had another panic attack since they started dating, but she had her bad days, times when she couldn’t sleep and couldn’t deal with the lightest touch. Steve didn’t mind—well, he minded, because he wished he could comfort her, but he understood. And he minded because she minded. These times made her irritable, but Steve knew the irritation stemmed from guilt and a persistent belief she was failing, somehow.

One such day, or rather, during a stretch of such days in March, Steve stopped by the library to check on her. Melinda, Sophie’s second in command, sat at the circulation desk. She was helping a patron, but greeted Steve with a “She’s in her office,” nodding at the door behind the desk. She looked slightly harassed.

“Still that bad?” Steve asked. Melinda shrugged, her hands full of books. He walked around the desk and knocked on the door.

“Sophia?”

He heard indistinct but ominous mutter, and poked his head in. She was sitting at her desk, fingers flying as she stared into one of those invisible screens. She had one pair of glasses on top of her head and another on her nose, never a good sign.

“What’s up?” he asked, noting her expression was more frustrated than anguished.

“Minerva’s being weird,” she said, not looking at him. He noticed a small plate by her hand, with a scone and her medication on it, untouched. Damn.

“I’ll make you some tea,” he said, reaching over to grab her mug, and then trying to inch behind her without touching her, a difficult task in the small space. She shifted as he moved, and he accidentally brushed her shoulder. She jerked as if burned and spun around, her posture shifting into fight-or-flight mode. He cursed in the privacy of his own head, and retreated to the corner by the sink, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible.

She noticed, and visibly tried to make herself relax. “Sorry,” she said, her voice still tight.

“My fault,” he said. Her attempt to calm herself hadn’t really worked. Her body was still tense, as if she were ready to start running any moment, her eyes unfocussed and her breathing fast.

“Sophia,” he said, as slow and calm as he could. “You should take your pills.”

Her gaze sharpened, and his words reminded her of her world and herself enough that she pulled a face. She had told him, during one of their movie nights, that she hated the pills, hated the way they made her feel, and her dependence on them. But she didn’t have a choice.

She picked them up and put them in her mouth. He filled her mug with water and held it out to her, handle outwards. She took it and drank.

“Sorry,” she said again, after the medication hit her system and she calmed down.

“It’s fine,” he said, or started to say before he noticed her face was drawn with exhaustion, blue shadows underneath her eyes.

“Sophia, when was the last time you slept?”

“Sleep is irrelevant,” she muttered, staring at her mug.

“Sophia. You need to sleep.”

She looked up at him. “Can’t,” she said tersely. “Tried.”

“Nightmares?”

She said nothing, but that was all the answer he needed.

“How long since you slept?”

She shrugged. “Dunno. What day is it?”

Steve ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or Tony? Or anyone? We’re here for you. They can’t help you if you don’t let them know. And they—we—want to help. I want to help. And I won’t sit by and watch you hurt yourself.”

“How can Tony help? He tried, anyway, I already told him. And how can you help?” she snapped. “You can’t fix me with love, you know. No matter how hard you try. Love can’t cure mental illness. I’ll be like this forever.”

“I’m not trying to fix you,” he said. “I like you fine the way you are.”

Her expression changed from irascibility to chagrin. She shoved the second pair of glasses up onto her head to join the first and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You of all people don’t deserve my bitchiness. I just…I keep thinking I’m getting better, and then I have days like this. Weeks like this.”

He shrugged. “Everyone has bad days. And if you do get better, even a little bit, that’s great. And if you don’t, that’s fine. You’re trying. I respect that. But I fell for you the way you are. I like you fine. And I’m here. For whatever you need. I’ll always be here.”

She stared at him, her face full of pain and fatigue, her eyes full of unshed tears.

“And right now,” he continued, “you need to sleep. Whether or not you admit it. And if I can’t put you to bed myself, I am at least going to walk with you to your door and make you promise you’ll try.”

She closed her eyes against his concerned gaze and, after a long moment, nodded. She slipped off her chair and stumbled in exhaustion. It took every ounce of his self-control not to steady her. He wished he could just pick her up and carry her to his bed, where he could keep an eye on her.

They walked slowly to the elevator, and then slowly to her door, where she turned to face him.

“Thanks,” she said. “I know I can be a pain.”

“You’re worth it,” he said. And because at this point, he could see no use pretending anything else anymore, he said “I love you.”

She gave him a tired smile.

“I know.”

“Get some sleep, all right?” he said. “I need you awake for Dancing with the Stars tomorrow.”

She almost laughed at that.

“I’ll try. I promise.”

**  
**


	7. Chapter 7

The next month, Steve stopped by the library. He had been mostly gone for a few weeks, first on SHIELD business, and then on an unexpected Avengers trip to Africa, which had been…interesting. Sophie’s face lit up as she saw him.

“You’re back!” she said, coming around the desk to give him a hug. “How was your trip?”

“Next time I have to take a long trip to the middle of nowhere, remind me to demand we take two planes, so I don’t have to spend twenty hours in a tin can with Tony and Clint.”

“That bad, huh?” she said, sympathetically.

“You know, I always wished I’d grown up with siblings until I saw how those two act.”

She snickered. Tony and Clint bickered like five year old boys. Not to mention the practical jokes. But Steve wasn’t here to talk about his team members, however irritating they might be.

“Sophia, why didn’t you tell me your birthday is this week?”

She blinked at him, innocently. “Is it?”

“Don’t give me that,” he said. “It’s a bit weird when your girlfriend’s boss asks you what your plans are for her birthday and you don’t even know when it is.”

“Sorry,” she said, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t like making a big deal about it.”

“But it’s your birthday,” said Steve. The idea of a quiet birthday was a totally foreign concept to a man who had fireworks and a parade every year on his, whether he wanted to or not.

“I just…I’m not a party person,” she said, taking his hand. “I don’t know if I’m up for anything this year anyway, what with…everything.”

“At least let me take you on a date,” he said. “Nothing big, just a quiet night that ends in cake. Please?” He looked at her pleadingly.

“Augh. How can I say no to that face? Fine. But nothing fancy.”

He grinned, triumphant.

“I’ll be dealing with SHIELD debriefings and stuff for the next few days, but I’ll pick you up on Friday.”

“Ok,” she said, tilting her head up for a kiss. “See you Friday.”

“Seven o’clock,” he said, as he walked away. “Wear something nice.”

“I said nothing fancy!” she called after him, getting nothing back but a smile. “Dammit,” she muttered. Something nice. What does that even mean?

* * *

 

“Soooo,” said Natasha, watching Sophie rummage through her closet on Friday afternoon. “Where’s he taking you?”

“I don’t even know. I told him nothing fancy.”

Natasha eyed the dresses and outfits strewn across the room, each one considered and discarded at least twice already. Sophie held two dresses out to Natasha.

“Which one?”

Natasha looked them over with the professional eye of woman whose job description was both “seductress” and “assassin.”

“No,” she said, decisively. She hopped off the bed and tore through the closet. “He didn’t give you any idea of where you’re going?”

Sophie stared at her, holding a pair of ballet flats. A suspicioun formed. “No. He didn’t. But you know, don’t you?”

Natasha gave off an air of injured innocence. Sophie’s eyes narrowed.

“Traitor. Tell me.”

“I’m not telling you anything. Except that you’ll love it.” Natasha finished her assault on the closet and held up a dress. “This one. With the Louboutins.”

“Really?” asked Sophie.

“Trust me.” Sophie still looked dubious. “Or you could just go naked,” said Natasha, grinning suggestively. “I bet he wouldn’t mind that.”

Sophie threw a shoe at her.

* * *

 

Steve knocked on Sophie’s door. It opened immediately, as if she’d been hovering right inside it. Which was, of course, exactly what she had been doing.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Let me grab my coat,” she said.

“You won’t need it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “It’s April. At night. In New York. Where is this magical place that I won’t need my coat when we walk outside?”

“You’ll see,” he said. She shrugged.

“Fine. But if I get cold I’m making you buy me a sweater.”

She grabbed her purse and joined Steve in the hall, her door clicking closed behind her. He got his first real look at her, all dolled up for date night. She was dressed simply and technically conservatively, the outfit Natasha had picked a variant on the theme of little black dress, falling to the knee with elbow length sleeves. But the clinging fabric and off the shoulder, low sweetheart neckline that dipped over her shoulder blades in the back turned it into…something else. Her only jewelry was small diamond earrings, and the flash of the Louboutin signature soles perfectly complemented her lipstick.

Not that Steve knew any of that. He just knew she was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. He stared. She noticed.

“If you don’t close your mouth, a fly might get in,” she said. He met her eyes and swallowed.

“Sorry. I just…you look…wow.”

She laughed. “I guess I should wear this dress more often. It’s not every day a girl can reduce Captain America to stuttering.”

He pulled himself together and offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

They headed to the elevator, and Steve pressed the button for the lobby, but when they got out, he took her down a hallway, not through the front doors.

“Steve?”

“Yes?”

“The doors are in fact the other way.”

“Told you you didn’t need a coat,” was all he said. He stopped at a door and turned to her. “Close your eyes.”

She regarded him suspiciously. “I’ll have you know I was traumatized by a surprise party when I was ten, so if that’s what’s happening, tell me now.”

“Trust me,” he said. She closed her eyes and heard him open the door, taking her hands and guiding her through it.

 “Stay there,” he said.  She heard the pop of a cork and the sound of pouring liquid. “Ok,” he said.

She opened her eyes. They were in a small conference room, tastefully decorated, with low ambient lighting that illuminated a table for two, already set with a meal and a single rose. Champagne chilled in a bucket on a service trolley, alongside a plate full of cupcakes. Standing by the table was Steve, holding two full glasses and watching her carefully.

“Well?” he said. She sniffed.

“I am not going to cry,” she said, “because that would ruin my makeup. Which took me at least an hour. But this is, I think, the single nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

He grinned and came over to hand her a glass. “I’m glad you like it. Now come eat before whatever Bruce cooked gets cold.”

“Bruce cooked?” she said, taking a sip of champagne.

“Fortunately for me, yes,” he said. “My cooking skills are limited to toast and canned soup. This” he said, gesturing at the table, “was my idea, but it became a team effort, you might say. Even JARVIS wanted to help. JARVIS? Music please?”

Frank Sinatra filtered into the room through unseen speakers as they sat down to eat. Bruce’s cooking was delicious, as usual, and they worked their way through most of the two bottles champagne and all the cupcakes, talking about the Avenger’s recent adventures in Africa, Sophie’s continued problems with Minerva acting weird, and the latest season of The Voice. Sophie went to snag the last half of the red velvet cupcake, and when she turned back, there was a small box on her plate.

“What is this?” she asked.

“You said nothing big, nothing fancy, but you didn’t say no presents,” said Steve. She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. She flipped the box open. Inside was a necklace, a small, abstract, slivery pendant set with a peridot stone that matched her eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, staring at it.

“I got Tony to make it,” he said. “It’s…uh…it’s vibranium.”

She looked up, her eyes widening.

“I thought you said the Wakandans didn’t export any.”

“Some of it may have…accidentally ended up in Tony’s pocket,” said Steve. Sophie snorted. She looked at it closer, noticing a spot in the design that looked suspiciously like a button.

“I’m guessing,” she said, “knowing Tony, that he couldn’t just make it an ordinary necklace.”

“You’d be right,” said Steve, getting up and coming around behind her, leaning over to show her its functions.

“It’s kind of like the earrings you were wearing at Christmas,” he said. “If you press this part, it links to JARVIS, who will route the signal to anywhere in his system. Including the Avengers commlines. If you press the stone, the signal goes directly to me. As long as I’m somewhere with JARVIS, or have my Avengers card with me.”

She looked over at him, startled. “That’s…that’s a helluva gift, Steve. I don’t know if I can carry the Avengers around with me everywhere.”

He understood the meaning behind her words, even if she couldn’t actually say it.

“None of us, not even Tony, not even me, can contact you through it unless you contact us first,” he said, gently. “But if you need us…if you need me, I’ll be there.”

She looked back at it, a small smile on her lips.

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s…really thoughtful. And really pretty.” She took it from the box, and unclasped the chain, holding it out to him. He placed it around her neck, his hands lingering on her shoulders. She shivered and leaned back against him. They stayed that way for a while, listening to the music. Sophie smiled as the music changed.

“Hey…it’s—“

“Our song,” finished Steve. “Dance with me?

He pulled her into his arms, leading her in a slowly revolving box step.

“I’ve never had a song with someone before,” she said. He smiled.

“Me neither. Although almost the entirety of my experience with romance can be summed up with ‘me neither.’ Until you.”

She looked up at him.

“How do you do it?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“This. All of this. Be so sweet. Know me better than anyone else I’ve ever met. Make is seem ordinary that I can’t deal with going out on a date for my own birthday, that sometimes you can’t even touch me. How do you make me feel so normal?”

He blinked.

“Because this is normal. Our normal. And compared to the things I’ve seen and done and dealt with, it is pretty normal. It might not be anyone else’s normal, but it’s ours. And that’s fine.”

She shook her head and sighed, laying her head on his shoulder. “I don’t understand,” she said, “but I’m grateful.”

“Also,” he said after a moment, “I love you.”

She pulled back, her expression unreadable.

“Steve, I—“

“I know. It’s ok. Whenever you’re ready. I’m not going anywhere.”

She looked up at him for a long moment, and then grabbed his shirt, pulling him down for a fierce kiss, pouring into it all the things she couldn’t say. The intensity of it left Steve gasping when they pulled apart.

“Wow,” he breathed. “What was that for?”

“Tonight. This,” she said, gesturing at her necklace. “You.”

Her hands came to rest on his broad chest, fingers splayed across as much of him as she could reach. Tentatively, he slid his hand up to cup her head, tilting her up as he bent down to kiss her again, softly. She leaned into him, deepening the kiss, reaching up and pulling him closer. She broke the kiss, turning her attention to the spot where his jaw met his neck, pulling from his body reactions that still surprised him, even after four months together.

“Sophia…” he whispered, catching her face in his hands, leaning his forehead against hers. “Where is this going?”

She smiled at him, wickedly. “Upstairs. My place.”

He blinked in surprise. It’s not that they hadn’t begun experimenting with the fun afforded by physical interactions. She was surprisingly affectionate, when she could be, and she took great pleasure in the corruption of Captain America, as she called it. She was more experienced than he was, not that that said much, so were most sixteen year olds these days. Movie nights more often than not devolved into sessions of what he persisted in referring to as “necking,” mostly because he thought the exasperated look this term provoked was adorable. But the necking and a few, to Steve, extremely memorable hand jobs, were about the extent of it so far. And these encounters always took place in his apartment—and one late night, on the couch in common area, he remembered, almost blushing. He had only been in her apartment three times, each for at most five minutes.

“You sure?” he asked her. She rolled her eyes.

“I just turned twenty-five, I think I’m allowed to have my boyfriend over if I want.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, not able to stop a smile unfolding on his face. Her boyfriend. His girlfriend. The thought always made him happy.

“Steve, I’m fine. Just—just trust me, alright?”

He nodded and she captured his mouth for another kiss, demanding, insistent, with a hint of promise.

 

They made their way to her apartment, slower than necessary because they kept stopping in odd corners to kiss, giggling and shushing each other like teenagers trying to sneak out. When they finally reached her door, they didn’t even notice until she splayed her hand on it, activating the handprint scanner so the door popped open, sending them stumbling through it as it swung in.

Lights flickered on, and Steve kicked the door closed behind them.

“Good evening, Sophie,” said a mellow female voice. Steve swung his head around.

“Minerva?”

“Oh my god, Minerva, really? Now?” asked Sophie as she broke apart from Steve.  He looked at her accusingly.

“I thought you said Minerva was only in the library and the archives.” Sophie looked guilty.

“And my apartment. Don’t tell Tony. I just really hate the idea of JARVIS in my bathroom.”

“Good evening, Captain Rogers,” said Minerva. “Shall I start the kettle?”

“No,” said Sophie. “We’re fine.”

“Or perhaps you would like me to bring up the media selection?” Minerva continued. Steve would almost swear he heard a hint of snark in her voice. He started to laugh.

“This is not happening right now,” said Sophie. “I refuse to be cockblocked by my own AI.”

“I was only trying to help.” Yep, Steve thought. Definitely snark.

“Go to sleep, Minerva,” said Sophie. “Now, please.”

They waited a beat, to make sure the AI offered no more helpful suggestions. She remained silent, and they regarded each other for a moment.

“So,” said Sophie.

“So.”

“That was kind of a mood killer.” He crossed over to her, running his fingers lightly across her shoulder and up her neck to spear into her hair. He’d learned, over the past month or so, what this particular maneuver did to her, and he liked it. She shuddered, bit her lip.

“Maybe not,” she whispered, as his other arm snaked around her waist and pulled her to him. He kissed her again, taking his time, his tongue teasing the tip of hers until she moaned into his mouth and melted against him. He laughed softly against her lips. He loved the way he could make her feel.

He’d maneuvered them, somehow, without breaking apart, to the couch. He sat down and pulled her on top of him, intending to sit her on his lap, but she had other ideas. She straddled his legs, pressing herself flush against him, taking control of the kiss. She unbuttoned his shirt, pulling insistently at it and the undershirt until he took them off.

She leaned back, examining her prize. He shifted, not entirely comfortable being the object of such study. His muscles rippled.

“Happy Birthday to me,” whispered Sophie, apparently to herself, trailing her nails over the expanse of his chest. He arched slightly beneath her touch, unable to help himself. She bent to kiss him, tilting her hips in a way that almost made Steve whimper. She did it again, intentionally, setting a slow rocking rhythm which sent a signal straight to a very ancient part of his brain, firing an answer response in his body. And oh, did it ever respond. She noticed, and grinned wickedly against his lips, her questing hand finding the waistline of his pants and undoing them. He groaned as she took hold. She dropped another kiss on his lips, and whispered “Don’t move,” as she removed herself from his lap, sinking to kneel between his legs on the floor.

“Sophia…” he said. “What are you…oh.”

She stopped and looked up at him, her green eyes almost yellow with want.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Please.”

She leaned forward. He moaned and closed his eyes. Never in his life had he imagined anything could feel so amazing. And then she started to move.

His back arched, involuntarily, his hands clenching the couch so hard they found a small tear in the fabric later.

“Jesus fuck,” he gasped. She laughed, deep in her throat, not breaking her rhythm. He lost track of time, his entire existence concentrated into this moment, this feeling. He opened his eyes at one point, looking down at her, and noticed her free hand had worked its way up her skirt, the thought of which was almost enough to send him spinning into oblivion by itself.

“Sophia,” he whispered, between gasps. “I’m…oh god…I can’t…”

She didn’t stop, didn’t let up, and soon fireworks exploded across the inner landscape of his mind.

“Thank you,” he said, when he could talk again. She sat back on her heels.

“I love it when you swear,” she said. He opened his eyes and saw her smiling at him.

“Well now you know how to make me swear whenever you want,” he said. She laughed, and stood up, bending over to brush a kiss against his lips.

“You taste good,” she whispered. Steve’s gut clenched with desire all over again. She straightened up, eyeing him. “And you look even better.”

He blushed. She grinned.

“What about…what about you?” he asked, unsure of the etiquette involved. She cocked her head questioningly.

“Well, I had…my turn. So I would assume it’s yours.”

“Such a gentleman,” she said.

“Reciprocation is an important part of any relationship,” he shot back.

“Can’t argue with that” she said, taking a step backwards, her hand reaching for the back of her dress and pulling the zipper down. The dress slipped off her shoulders and fell to the floor, revealing black lingerie against soft porcelain skin. Steve immediately revised his assessment of her in that dress as the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. Sophie out of the dress was infinitely better.

She stepped out of the black puddle on the floor, towards him, still wearing her heels. He swallowed.

“You’ll have to teach me,” he admitted. “I really have no idea what I’m doing. Books only get a person so far.”

“I look forward to furthering The Education of Captain America,” she said, softly. She headed for the bedroom. Grinning, Steve followed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only way this chapter could be more self-indulgent is if this were *actually* a Mary-Sue.
> 
>  
> 
> I swear this story has a plot. Really.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some plot.

* * *

Steve woke. He was in his own bed, Sophie not yet to the point where she could sleep in the same room as anyone else, let alone the same bed. Steve wasn’t sure if he was at that point either, in their relationship, mostly because sometimes the nightmares made him an unpredictable bedfellow. All the same, it had been a fantastic night. And very…educational. He smiled, and almost blushed in the privacy of his own room at the memories. She _really_ liked it when he swore.

With such thoughts taking up most of his brain, it was a while before he realized it was still dark outside, and an even longer while to realize what woke him up.

There was someone in his apartment. His serum-enhanced hindbrain, or at least the parts of it not busy with Sophie, presented him with the knowledge quietly, and he, equally quietly, turned over and examined the room through slitted eyes.

There. A shadow, near the door, its back to him. Nothing about the man—his posture, the way he held his head, his breathing—was familiar. And unknown man, in his apartment. In Stark Tower. Steve slipped out of his bed and padded silently up behind the man. He noticed, but too late. Steve grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall.

“Who are you?” he growled. The man said nothing, but Steve caught a glimpse of white teeth as the he grinned.

“Lights,” said Steve. A lamp switched on, giving Steve a better look at his prisoner. The man was…about as nondescript as it is possible to be while sneaking around someone’s apartment in a ninja outfit. Smallish, but powerfully built. Skin somewhere between Mediterranean and Caucasian. Brown hair, brown eyes. Steve had no idea who he was.

“Who are you?” Steve asked again. “Last chance. Tell me or there will be consequences.”

The man was still grinning. “Good luck getting answers from a dead man,” he said, and swallowed convulsively. Steve swore and let go as the man’s eyes rolled up and he began to shake, falling to floor in a matter of seconds and going still.

Steve bolted back into his room toward his shield, saying “JARVIS, what the hell is going on?”

“Regarding what, sir?”

“The man. In my room. How did he get in here? Why didn’t you raise an alarm? Where is everyone?”

“All other Avengers are in their rooms, except for Thor who I believe is in New Mexico. And I have no record of anyone else in your apartment but you, Captain,” said JARVIS, sounding as confused as an AI can get. Steve let that pass.

“Nevermind. Get everyone else up and into the common area. Including Sophia.”

Steve dashed out the door, shield in hand.

“Miss Carbonell is not in her room,” said JARVIS.

“Fuck. Where is she?”

“On the roof, sir. She…may need some assistance. I cannot read another individual with her, but she…appears to be fighting someone.” JARVIS paused. “Many other Avengers report similar unknown assailants. Or appear to be engaging them.”

“What the hell?”

“I really cannot say, sir. There appears to be a malfunction in my biological reading abilities.”

“Get everyone up to the roof as soon as possible,” said Steve. He tore up the stairs, his enhanced muscles able to take him faster than any elevator. He burst out the door, scanning the rooftop for any sign of Sophia. There, on the other side, near Tony’s launchpad, he saw her. His eyes took a moment to register what he saw. She was fighting. His Sophia. Fighting another man in black. And, unbelievably, winning.

He ran toward her, feeling like the world was in slow motion, as she grabbed her assailant’s arm and twisted, in a move Steve recognized as ju jitsu, a fighting style he knew Tony preferred. There was a crack as the man’s arm kind of came apart in Sophie’s grasp. She dropped it, spun around and kicked him in the chest. He dropped, and she retreated, watching the man in case he moved.

Steve reached her, calling out her name. She looked up, and only then did Steve see the look in her eyes.

Or rather, the lack of look. There was nothing there, nothing he recognized, anyway. No Sophia. No fear, or terror, or pain either. It reminded him of the look on faces of lions in nature documentaries, when they were faced by something unfamiliar but not immediately threatening. She just watched him, warily.

“Sophia…” he breathed. He reached out to her, unable to stop himself. She reacted, scything his legs out from under him in a move that only worked because he was utterly unprepared. She backed quickly away. He started to get up.

“Stay down, Cap,” said a voice behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see Tony, standing a little way away.

“Tony, what the hell—“

“Not now,” he said, cutting Steve off. He was watching Sophie, who stood almost on the edge of the roof, a few backward steps away from falling. “Clint?”

“Here,” said Clint, standing maybe twenty feet to their right. Natasha was beside him. Steve looked to their left and saw the Hulk, who started to Sophia.

“Stay where you are, big guy,” said Tony, without even looking. “We’ll get her.” Hulk subsided, but looked grouchy about it.

“JARVIS?”

“Almost there, sir,” said the AI.

Sophie stared at them all, no recognition in her eyes. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw Clint slowly raise his bow and knock an arrow, pointing it at her. Steve started up, fast.

“Clint, the hell are you—“

“Steve, shut up and stand still,” Tony ordered. “You don’t have all the pieces. JARVIS we could really use you now.”

But Steve’s sudden movement had drawn Sophie’s eyes to Clint, still pointing a bow at her. She took another step backward, her eyes drifting over the team. Another step. Clint loosed his arrow, the shaft splitting off to reveal a small dart, which Steve now realized must be full of some sort of tranquilizer. It struck her on the arm, and she looked at it almost dreamily, plucking it off and dropping it on the ground.

“Sophia,” Steve yelled, desperate, taking a step toward her. She focused on him. As long as he lived, he would never forget how she looked in that moment, blood on her face, bruises already forming on her arms, wind in her hair. And nothing in her eyes.

She turned around and stepped off the roof

 

 

 

Steve made a strangled noise in his throat.

“JARVIS!” yelled Tony, his voice rising.

“I have her, sir,” said the cool British voice, a sound of sanity barely heard above the pounding in Steve’s ears. Mark 46, one of Tony’s prehensile suits, rose above the roof line, carrying a limp Sophie. It landed and deposited her unconscious body in Tony’s arms.

Steve let out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. He looked at his team members one by one.

“Anyone want to tell me what the hell just happened?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a mean, mean person. 
> 
> More tomorrow.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look at that it's 12:10. That's technically tomorrow...

* * *

It was later. They were in the hospital, outside of Sophie’s room, as a doctor brought Tony up to speed on her injuries. A few cracked ribs, some abrasions, a possible concussion, sprained ankle. Broken wrist. Nothing that wouldn’t heal.

The team had compared notes on their respective nights, each story sounding pretty much the same. They’d woken up to find a nondescript man in their rooms, who hadn’t registered with JARVIS, and who shortly died after being caught. Tony was as baffled by JARVIS’s failure as the rest of them. Steve asked if the manner of death was the same as his man’s, and they all nodded as he described it. Except for Natasha, who said shortly “I don’t know. I didn’t wait to find out if he’d die on his own.”

No one had answered the question he’d asked on the roof of the Tower.

Bruce reappeared, after having gone back to the Tower for clothes. Hulking out took a serious toll on his wardrobe. He sat down next to Steve.

“Do you know what’s going on?” Steve asked. Tony had finished talking to the doctor and was now on his cell.

“You’ve been here longer than I have,” said Bruce. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

Steve just looked at him. Bruce relented.

“Yeah. But I can’t tell you. It’s not—“

“Your story to tell,” Steve finished. He sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. He was getting real tired of that answer.

“You guys aren’t gonna believe this,” said Tony. The team looked up at him from the uncomfortable hospital seats. “The bodies. From the men at the Tower. The hospital lost them. Along with the guy Sophie beat up.”

Sophie’s attacker hadn’t died, but was in critical condition, and also handcuffed to his hospital bed. Or at least he was supposed to be.

“What?” asked Steve. “How can they lose bodies? They don’t just get up and walk out the door.”

“I don’t know,” said Tony. “They don’t know. But they’re gone, all of them. Good thing we took off all their tech before handing them over, otherwise we’d have nothing.”

“What the fuck is going on?” muttered Clint.

“I don’t know,” said Tony again. “But I’m starting to believe this is a lot bigger than we thought.”

“You think it’s related to the first kidnapping?” asked Bruce, quietly. Tony shrugged.

“There’s no proof. But it’s a helluva coincidence. I’ll talk to Sophie when she wakes up.”

“No,” said Steve, staring at his hands. There was steel in his tone. “I will.”

He looked up and met Tony’s eyes. Tony regarded him for a moment, then nodded. He turned on his heel and walked away, already dialing a number on his phone.

* * *

 

Sophie swam into consciousness, or what passed for consciousness when she had a concussion and painkillers.

She blinked, the world resolving itself somewhat into fluorescent lights and pair of concerned blue eyes.

“Steve?” she whispered.

“Hey,” he said, softly. “I’m here.”

“Where…”

“Hospital. It’s fine. You’re ok.”

Keeping her eyes open was hard. She closed them.

“It’s all right,” she heard him say. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Safe. She smiled a little.

“Go back to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

She drifted off again, warm in a cocoon of drugs and the knowledge that Captain America was guarding her bedside.

* * *

 

Sophie woke up. Her vision resolved, showing her hospital lights and a pair of eyes. She felt like she’d done this before, but the eyes were the wrong color.

“Ow,” she said.

“Morning, sunshine,” said Tony. She struggled to sit up, wincing.

“They said not to do that.”

“Fuck off.” She succeeded in staying upright and then almost wished she hadn’t. She looked blearily around, noting the IV in one hand and the cast on the other. Tony handed her her glasses. The world came more into focus. “How long have I been out?”

“A couple days. I told them to keep you doped up, because I didn’t want the poor nurses to have to deal with your bitching. You know how you get.”

“Yeah,” she said, almost smiling. “Still not half as bad as you. What happened?”

“About the same as usual,” he said, perching on the edge of her bed. “How much do you remember?”

“About the same as usual. Pretty much nothing.”

“We found you on the roof.”

 “Is that all?” she said. “I feel like got hit by a truck.”

“You fell off a building, actually,” he said. She looked up at him, startled. “JARVIS caught you. He says you owe him a conversation with Minerva. I think he has a crush.”

She said nothing, trying to assimilate what little information he’d given her.

“Steve was there,” he said, casually. She closed her eyes, slumping back into her pillows.

“Fuck.”

“I take it you still haven’t told him all of it.”

She shook her head, eyes still closed. “I was going to. Next week. Next month. Sometime. There never seems to be a good time.”

“Well, now is probably a good time,” he said. “Communication being the foundation to all healthy relationships and all that.”

She snorted, which made her wince again. “Oh please. Like you can lecture me about healthy relationships.”

“Hey, Pepper and I do alright,” he said, taking mock offense.

“How?” she asked, her voice small. “I know she knows everything about…what happened. To you. I know you told her. Tell her. And I can’t…I can’t even imagine being able…Does it ever get an easier?”

Tony stared down at his hands. “No,” he said, simply. “It doesn’t. It never will. But I found someone who’s worth it. So that’s what you have to decide, Soph. I think he is. But it’s up to you.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Where…where is he?” she asked, finally. Tony looked up at her, deciding to pretend he didn’t see her wiping tears off her cheeks.

“He went to the cafeteria. Probably charming some cookies off a lunch lady with his all American good looks.”

She chuckled, wetly.

“I’ll send him up,” said Tony, getting off the bed.

 

Sophie looked up as Steve walked into her room, finishing off what looked like a small bag of cookies. She almost laughed.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.” He pulled a chair over and sat down near the foot of her bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I fell off a building and a robot caught me,” she said.

“You remember, then?”

She sighed. “No. Tony told me. I don’t ever remember anything from when I’m…like that.”

He nodded, as if filing that information away somewhere. “So this happens—has happened—more than once.”

She nodded. She didn’t want to talk about this. She hated talking about this. She hated everything about this, up to and especially her broken self, sometimes.

“Your panic attacks?” he asked. She nodded again.

“But they’re not…normal panic attacks.” It wasn’t a question, but she nodded a third time.

“If all panic attacks were like mine, I think civilization would’ve collapsed by now,” she said. “It’s a handy euphemism, though. You know your life is extra fun when you can use the term ‘panic attack’ as a euphemism.”

He hesitated, as if uncertain of how to ask the next question in his apparent list of questions.

“How long…I mean, did they start after—“

“Yes, they started after the kidnapping. And to answer your next question, no I don’t know why. Other than the obvious reason of I was kidnapped.”

“That wasn’t my next question,” he said.

“Oh? Well what was it, because this is a really fun game, where you ask me questions about the worst parts of my life and I try not freak out. I love this game.”

He ignored her sarcasm.

“When you told me, at New Years, what happened to you. Was any of it…” He stopped, unsure if he wanted to even ask this question, but he had to know. “Sophia, did you lie to me? About anything?”

She stared at him, looking disbelieving and a little betrayed.

“Why would I lie about something like that? Do you think it was fun, for me, to tell you that? Do you think I made it all up? Why would you even ask a question like that?”

He passed a hand over his face. “I probably could have phrased that better. What I meant was…Well you obviously didn’t tell me everything, and no one else will tell me anything, and I feel like I’m constantly missing some vital piece of information about you, and every time I think I figured it out, something new comes up. Like this. So right now I’m a little wary of accepting anything as the truth without any questions.”

Her jaw clenched, and her voice, when she spoke, was tight with anger.

“Everything— _everything_ —I told you was the truth. I told you more that night than I’ve told anyone, even Tony, even the doctors. And no, I didn’t tell you everything, but that’s because I…I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. Not then.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looked up into her face.

“Anything you want to tell me now?”

She stared at him, and he thought she was about to break and start screaming at him, but then she slumped back against the pillows, the anger draining from her face, leaving her looking tired and small.

“Fuck, Steve,” she said, her voice breaking. “What do you even want from me?”

“Honesty,” he said, simply. “If you want to tell me everything that happened to you, and I mean everything, then tell me. If you don’t want to tell me, if you can’t tell me, if you only want to tell me some of it, then tell me that. Just let me know. That’s all I want. To not be left totally in the dark, thinking you’ve already let me in. That’s all I ask.”

She looked at him, this big, solid, uncomplicated presence sitting in that stupidly small chair, this man hero worshipped by an entire country, this kind, funny, unflaggingly good man, looking up at her with his patient blue eyes, asking her to let him in. Not demanding. Not pushing. Just asking.

And because he asked—just asked—she did.

“When I was kidnapped, they…did something. Some kind of experiments. I don’t know what. We don’t know what. I can’t remember, really. There are disjointed flashes, bits that don’t match up, like pieces of a puzzle, but nothing cohesive. Tony’s run every test and scan he can think of, brought in the top scientists, the best doctors—nothing. Whatever they did doesn’t show up. Except when I feel threatened. Then it’s like…a switch flips. In my head. And I’m not there anymore. It wouldn’t really be that much of an issue, except that because of the PTSD, I feel threatened by things that wouldn’t be a problem for normal people. Nightmares. Crowds. Touch. And it’s unpredictable. Sometimes I’m fine for weeks, even months, and then the PTSD kicks in, and suddenly everything frightens me, and I…react. Badly.”

She paused for a moment, taking in a breath and letting it out shakily. He wanted—so badly—to reach out and comfort her, somehow, but held himself back, knowing it would probably do more harm than good.

“The doctors called them panic attacks,” she continued.  “The initial symptoms are the same—accelerated heart rate, feeling like I can’t breathe, shaking. Most of the time it takes a while to get to the flip point, and if we catch it early enough, we can usually prevent me from going to the other side, but sometimes…we don’t.

“The first time it happened—that I’m aware of anyway—was when Tasha and Clint found me. I didn’t know they were there to rescue me, I didn’t know much of anything at that point, not even my own name. All I knew was that someone was grabbing me and then I woke up in a hospital a week later. I almost killed two SHIELD agents before Tash brought me down. I don’t remember any of it, while I’m…gone. Once, in upstate New York, someone grabbed my arm and when I snapped out of it, I was almost in Canada. I’d run over twenty miles.”

She stopped again, plucking at a loose thread in the hospital blanket.

“I’m…I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier,” she said, not looking at him. “I just…I didn’t want to lose you. And I’ve been getting better, and I thought, maybe if I waited long enough, it just wouldn’t be a problem anymore. This…whatever I have, whatever they did to me, it’s what lost me Jeremy. We were going to get married. We were young, but it didn’t matter. And he stuck around for the first few months after I came back, trying to help. And then one day he took my hand when I wasn’t expecting it and I flipped out. When I woke up, he was gone. He left me a note just saying ‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’ It nearly killed me. I nearly killed me. That’s when I went to the first institution. It took a while to get myself back, to get the PTSD dealt with enough that I wasn’t an immediate danger to myself or anyone else. But it worked, more or less, enough that I could move here. And then I met you.”

Steve waited a moment, but no more seemed to be forthcoming.

“Can I ask a question?” he said. She nodded, still not looking at him.

“Who else knows? Because I don’t want to share this with anyone you don’t want to know.”

“Tony. I don’t know how much he’s told Pepper, but not much. Some doctors know pieces. Natasha and Clint have seen the…effects, obviously, but they don’t know the reason. I mean, neither do we, but at least we know we don’t know. Bruce. And now you.”

“Bruce?”

She looked up at that one.

“Yeah. Tony wanted to bring him in on it because he’s one of the foremost experts on weird things happening to people. A very select field, I might add. And he of all people knows what it’s like to have something dangerous lurking inside them.”

Steve nodded.

“One more question. What’s the last thing you remember before…waking up here?”

She closed her eyes, thinking back through the drug induced haze.

“You left after…well. I went to bed. I woke up and there was someone in room, standing over my bed, reaching out to me. I…I threw a lamp at him, I think. And then he grabbed me. And that’s it. I woke up here.” She looked up at him. “What did happen?”

He frowned. “I don’t know if I should…”

She made an exasperated noise. “Steve. Whatever happened can’t possibly be worse than what I already carry with me. I’m pretty sure I can handle it. And not knowing is always worse than knowing.”

He sighed. He knew someone would tell her eventually, so it might as well be him. He filled her in on everything he knew, starting with the attack on him and the other Avengers, slightly glossing over the deaths and the particulars of Sophie’s fight with her assailant, but including a rundown of her injuries.

“I certainly have adventures when I’m not aware of them. It’s nice to know I apparently remember how to fight though,” she said, when he was done. “What happened to the guy I was fighting?”

“He’s gone,” said Steve. This was still the most baffling part of the whole business. She looked up, startled.

“Gone? You mean…I didn’t kill him, did I?”

“No. He was alive, he was here, chained to a bed. And then he disappeared, along with the rest of them.”

She sat back and sighed, rubbing her forehead.

“What the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know. Tony thinks this may be related to the—your—kidnapping. And I think he may be onto something. None of the men attacked us directly, each of us woke and initiated the fight. It was like they were stationed in our rooms to keep a look out or provide distraction in case we woke up. The only person who was actually grabbed was you. And you were on the roof, that’s over eighty stories up from your apartment. The roof with a landing pad for helicopters. A pretty good place if you want to grab someone.”

She stared at him. She looked tired—exhausted and emotionally wrung out, actually. He wondered how much she was actually taking in at this point. Plus he noticed her painkiller drip had activated.

“But don’t worry about it now,” he said. “You should rest.”

Rest, she thought. What a good idea. She slid down into the bed, wincing a little but also feeling kind of fuzzy. She wondered what they were giving her. Whatever it was, it was fantastic.

He got up, tucking the blankets around her, careful not to actually touch her. He switched off the lamp.

“Cap?” she said, drowsily.

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For asking. For listening. For not running away in terror.”

He laughed, softly. He’d fought Nazis, HYDRA, aliens, genetically engineered monsters, and some sort of blob thing no one had ever been able to explain, and she was afraid of frightening him away.

“The only thing that scares me about this is the thought of losing you,” he said.

She smiled in the dim light. “Silly. These drugs are too good to leave. I’m not going anywhere.”

Steve sat back down in that stupid uncomfortable chair, stretching out his legs in front of him, and folded his hands over his stomach.

“Neither am I.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kind reviews (and by that I mean, yesssss, your tears sustain me, mwahahahaaaaa).

 

* * *

 

“Can I go home now?” asked Sophie. It had been four days since she fully regained consciousness, and she was driving everyone up the wall. No one wanted to leave her alone, so they’d been taking shifts watching her, bringing in Tony’s private security and even some SHIELD agents when they had to deal with other business.

She hated it. She accepted it was necessary, but she hated it. Steve wondered why he hadn’t realized before just how fiercely independent she was. Something about needing all that help, psychological and otherwise, after the kidnapping, had made her truly hate having to depend on others now. She wasn’t stupid about it, not like Tony, refusing all help until the damage was already done, but if she could do something on her own, she would damn well do it on her own.

He had watched her, once, stumble limping to the bathroom, clinging onto her IV stand as the world tilted around her, and when he got up to help her, she sent him a look that stopped him in his tracks.

“Don’t,” was all she said. He subsided back into his chair as she repeated the painfully slow process back to her bed.

“By your own hand or none, eh?” he said, lightly, referencing their shared favorite author.

She settled back into her pillows carefully.

“Damn skippy,” she had said.

But that same streak of bloody-mindedness which he would otherwise admire was starting to take its toll on everyone. She was a lot more like Tony than either of them would care to admit, sharing the type of mind that chafed at confinement and boredom, and taking that out on the people around them with barbed comments and sarcasm. So sharp they‘ll cut themselves, Steve’s mother said about people like them. Steve had taken to sketching to pass the time, the meditative habit helping him to ignore the razor sharp words flying above his head.

“You can go home when they say you can,” said Tony told Sophie, for about the millionth time. Sophie rolled her eyes and went back to pecking one-handedly at her laptop, editing some complicated string of symbols that Steve assumed was code related. She had convinced someone to bring her a laptop, presumably because she promised to only use it to watch Star Trek. A promise which she promptly broke. So far no one had braved her assured wrath to try and take it back. She’d been forbidden books by the doctors, because of the concussion. Steve read to her, sometimes, especially at night to help her sleep. She had trouble falling asleep, but once asleep she had slept like the dead, no nightmares or anything. They were all grateful for this small gift, at least. Sophie’s nightmares, and her potential reaction to them, would’ve been hard to explain.

A doctor poked her head in the door.

“Mr. Stark? Do you have a moment?”

Tony joined her right outside the door. Steve went back to his paper, sketching a squirrel that had appeared in the tree outside the window.

He looked up once and saw Sophie staring at him.

“I didn’t know you drew,” she said.

“Mm,” he said, the pencil making short, deft strokes against the paper. “I was in art school, before the war.”

“Can I—would you mind showing me?” she asked.

He stilled his movements, looking up at her.

“Tell you what. If you can make it the rest of the day without snapping at anyone, I’ll show you.”

Anger and then defeat flashed over her face in quick succession. She looked down.

“I probably deserved that, didn’t I?” she said in a small voice. “I’m sorry. I’m not good at hospitals.”

“I know. But it would be a lot easier on everyone if you stopped biting heads off every time someone asked you if you want some orange juice.”

“Sorry,” she said again. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” he said. Outside, Tony rapped on the window, making Sophie jump. Steve looked over and Tony jerked his head in the universal “come over here” motion.

“What’s up?” Steve asked, joining them outside.

“Sophie’s cleared to go home,” Tony said. “I thought you might want to tell her.”

The doctor delicately cleared her throat. Tony looked at her questioningly.

“Was there something else?”

“Well, no, Mr. Stark, not as such, but…”

“But?” said Steve.

“Miss Carbonell is in fine shape, better shape than we would have expected considering her injuries. She is healing fast. Remarkably fast. We were wondering if perhaps she would consent to a few more tests…”

The doctor trailed off at Tony’s sudden look of intense dislike.

“No,” was all he said, his voice flat. She turned to Steve, as though to appeal to a more objective individual, and met a wall of amiable implacability.

“No,” Steve said. She sighed, thwarted.

“Very well, gentlemen. You can leave as soon as you wish.”

* * *

 

Sophie reacted with intense joy at being told she was free, or at least free enough to spend the remainder of her healing at home. Once loaded into the car she demanded they stop for pizza in celebration, saying of all things hospital related, the food was always the worst. By the time they got back to Stark Tower, it was already half past eight.

Steve wheeled Sophie directly to her apartment, ignoring her insistence they stop in the library to check that it hadn’t spontaneously combusted in her absence. He was perversely grateful she was still in a wheelchair—her ankle still unable to support her, and her ribs and wrist making crutches impossible.

He deposited Sophie on her couch, after a greeting from Minerva that sounded almost ecstatic, or at least ecstatic from an AI, and went to make tea. He presented her with a mug of raspberry mint, and her nightly dose of painkillers, which she sighed at but dutifully swallowed.

“I hate these. They make me loopy.”

“But you’re so cute when you’re loopy,” he said, sitting down next to her. He pulled out his sketchbook, and she brightened up.

“Was I nice enough?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “You did call Tony a Philistine for refusing to let you order feta on the pizza.”

“He deserved that,” she said. “Who hates feta? Only Philistines, that’s who.”

He chuckled. “I concede that point.” He opened the sketchbook and held it out to her. She flipped through it.

Stark Tower. Small, quick sketches of random faces, as if he had been people watching at the park. Drawings of the team—Natasha and Clint sharing a smiling moment—Tony tinkering with some piece of machinery—Thor with his beloved coffee—a rather intriguing drawing of Bruce, standing outlined in the huge figure of the Hulk. A cartoony drawing of a man with an eyepatch, his angry expression drawn somehow mockingly. She giggled.

“These are really good,” she said, still turning pages. More people watching sketches, including a Labrador and some typical New York wildlife—squirrels, pigeons. Unfamiliar faces which she guessed were Bucky and Peggy. A sweet picture of Tony and Pepper dancing. She turned over a page and found herself looking back up at her, hair in a bun, a sardonic eyebrow slightly raised behind her glasses. She looked up at Steve, startled. He said nothing. She flipped to the next page, filled with small sketches. Of Sophie.

Sophie at the library. Sophie at Christmas, in the ball gown she hated, hair swept up. Sophie at the café, laughing. Sophie at New Years, fireworks in the sky behind her. Sophie in the black dress, next to, rather embarrassingly, Sophie in the black lingerie. She flipped the page again.

Sophie, on the deck of a ferry boat, leaning against the railing, wind tangling her hair, smiling and looking out and up at what she knew to be the Statue of Liberty, because she remembered the day. He’d taken her to Ellis Island, because she’d lived in New York over a year and still hadn’t been. They’d taken Thor and Jane, because neither of them had been yet either. Because it was Captain America and the mighty Thor, all doors had been unlocked, all records opened. They’d even found Steve’s parents’ names and she nearly saw the unthinkable sight of Captain America crying.

She ran her fingers lightly over the drawing and looked up at him, her eyes filling with tears.

“Is this…is this how you see me?” she asked, her voice thick. The girl in the picture looked whole, unbroken, happy.

He nodded, adding “Sophia, this is how everyone sees you.”

She stared at him for a moment, and then leaned in and kissed him, running her good hand up his shoulder to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. His hands, hesitantly, gently, ran up her back to tangle in her hair.

“Oh, I’ve missed you,” he said, when they broke apart. She kissed him again as an answer, deeper this time, sweetly demanding. Her hand slid down his body, trailing along the waistline of his pants before he caught it in one of his.

“What are you doing?”

She pulled back a little, a small wicked smile on her face. “Having sex with you?”

“Sophia…” He sounded almost exasperated. She leaned in to kiss him again, lightly, teasingly.

“I want this,” she whispered against his lips. “I want you.”

His stomach clenched. Of all the times…The evening after her birthday date had been educational, certainly, but they’d stopped just short of making his least favorite nickname of the Virgin Captain a lie.

“Sophia,” he said again, cupping her face in his hands and looking into her green eyes. “You are exhausted, injured, emotionally vulnerable and probably loopy on painkillers. You are in no condition to make this kind of decision. Or for that kind of physical exertion.”

She looked hurt, and he kissed her again softly. “I want you,” he said, leaning his forehead against hers. “More than anything. But I also love you, and I won’t be a part of something you may regret.”

She sagged against him.

“I’m not winning this one, am I? Does it ever get exhausting, being so chivalrous? And probably right all the time?”

He chuckled, running his hands gently up and down her back. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t know any other way to be.”

They stayed that way for a while, enjoying the closeness after a week of no touch, before he noticed the time.

“C’mon,” he said, getting up. “You need sleep.”

She looked at her bedroom door, all the way across the apartment, and then looked at the wheelchair.

“This is stupid,” she said.

“Well, you can’t walk it, I promised the doctors you’d stay off your ankle for at least another two days.”

 “You could carry me.”

“I could,” he said, his arms folded. “But it might hurt your ribs.”

“Aw, c’mon, Cap, what’s the point of having a big superhero for a boyfriend if you don’t sweep me off my feet once in a while?”

In spite of himself, he smiled at her use of the word boyfriend. “Sophia…”

She looked up at him, eyes sleepy and her smile just a little bit fuzzy. The painkillers had kicked in.

“Steve. It’ll be fine. I trust you.”

And how could he resist that? He leaned over, one arm under her shoulders, the other under her knees and lifted her, gently. She threw an arm around his broad shoulders and nuzzled into his neck, sighing, as he set off for her room. She was already mostly asleep when he lowered her onto her bed, but she reached out to him as he backed away, her eyes half closed.

“Stay?” she whispered.

“I’ll be right out on the couch,” he said, turning off her light. “I promise.”

* * *

 

Steve woke up, but at first he couldn’t figure out why. He sat up, rubbing his neck, wondering when he would get spend a night in a real bed. A small sound reached his ears.

A sob. Quiet, as if deliberately being stifled. Sophia.

He shot off the couch and walked quickly to her room, not wanting to startle her by appearing too suddenly. He knocked on her slightly ajar door.

“Sophia?”

He poked his head in when there was no answer, figuring her safety was second to her privacy at this point. She was sitting up, hugging her knees, tears pouring down her face. She looked up at him and made a futile attempt to wipe her eyes. He came in, sitting down at the edge of her bed.

“Nightmare?”

She shrugged.

“You want to talk about it?”

She gave a little noise at that, a strangled half laugh, half sob.

“No. Not really. It’s nothing new.”

Steve said nothing, just waited.

“It’s not so much the nightmares,” she said, finally. “As it is…everything. Just all of it. I was fine at the hospital, because dealing with the hospital took up so much that I didn’t have to deal with any of the rest of it. And then I come home and it all just comes cr—crashing down.”

She started to sob again, tightening into a ball, her head on her knees. Steve realized that even with everything she’d told him, everything she’d been through, he’d never seen her cry. He’d seen her blink tears away and he’d seen her in the throes of her malfunctioning brain chemistry, helplessly consumed by sobs. But he’d never seen _her_ cry. Not like she was now. It wasn’t graceful, wasn’t pretty, and it utterly broke his heart.

He moved toward her without thinking, the urge to comfort, to protect, finally overcoming his better judgment, and touched her shoulder lightly. She looked up at him with wide eyes, not with panic, but with surprise. She reached up to grab his hand and leaned toward him, and he simply gathered her up into his arms, pulling her close and rocking her gently as she sobbed into him.

“It’s alright,” he whispered, as she cried. “I’m here. Just let go. I’m here.”

Eventually her sobs slowed, turning to deep, hiccoughing breaths, until that too steadied into normal breathing. She shifted and he loosened his arms around her. She looked up, wiping her face.

“Better?” he asked.

She nodded. “Thank you.”

“What else are big superhero boyfriends for?” he asked. She smiled a little, tiredly.

“You should get some more sleep,” he said, dropping a kiss on her forehead. “You need anything? More painkillers?”

“No, I’m fine. Could you…could you stay though?” she asked, looking at her hands.

“Of course. I’ll be on the—“

“No. I mean, here. With me. I don’t…I don’t want to be alone.” She looked up at him, ghosts in her green eyes.

“Please just…just hold me?”

Steve looked at her, not sure he’d heard her right, but the look on her face, the heartbreakingly hopeful look told him he had. He looked at her, this beautiful, strong, broken, healing woman who he loved so damn much, who was finally—finally—letting him in.

“Yes,” he said. She moved over and he slipped under the covers. She settled against him with a small sigh, and he curled his big body around her, promising himself, as he drifted off, that he would protect her from whatever he could, even the demons in her own head.


	11. Chapter 11

Steve woke, alone. Sunlight filtered through the windows, striping the bed in gold. He heard noises in the kitchen—the chink of plates, the roll of a drawer, the little sounds of someone making breakfast on a lazy morning. He rolled out of bed and went to investigate.

He found Sophie in the kitchen, pouring tea, a half-eaten piece of toast in her mouth.

“Hey,” he said. “Sleep ok?”

She nodded, and removed the toast, waving it at him in a vaguely interrogative manner as she chewed.

“I’d love a piece,” he said. She handed him a plate, and then padded to the fridge, coming back with butter and jam.

“I slept marvelously well, actually,” she said. “I blame the vicodin.” She came around the counter to wrap an arm around him and drop a kiss on his head.

He leaned into her, struck by how delightfully normal this all was. Almost too normal. He frowned, realizing she was walking around instead of in her wheelchair.

“You’re supposed to keep off your feet,” he said.

“Ugh,” she said, heaving a sigh and rolling her eyes. “You’re as bad as Clint. My ankle is fine. I feel fine.”

He stopped, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth, and stared at her.

“Do that again,” he ordered.

 “What, be exasperated at you? It’s hardly new,” she said, grinning.

“No,” he said, slowly. “You just sighed.”

She stared at him, confused.

“Sophia, you have three broken ribs. You shouldn’t be able to take a deep breath, let alone sigh at me. And your ankle could barely even hold you up yesterday.”

She frowned, her gaze turning inward as if doing an internal check, taking a slow deep breath and letting it out.

“Actually that is kind of weird,” she said. She stretched cautiously.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Fine. I feel…fine. My wrist aches a little, still. But I didn’t take any painkillers yet.” She looked at him, her eyes wide. “What the hell…”

“I don’t know,” said Steve, standing up. “But I intend that we find out.”

* * *

 

“Nothing out of the ordinary?” said Natasha. “How is this nothing out of the ordinary?”

“Nothing that shows up. Nothing that I can find,” said Tony, running his hands through his hair, frustrated. “Everything looks…normal. The healing patterns, the cell regrowth, everything. Just faster. I’d ask if you were a mutant, Soph, but I think we already ran that test.”

They were in the common area, all of them, Clint and Natasha included. Even Pepper and Thor. At this point, Sophie had said, there was no reason to hide anything, because it was definitely getting into weird territory, and weird was their area, not hers. She had brought everyone up to speed on her experiences while kidnapped, telling an abbreviated version that held facts and no emotions. Her voice was calm, but she held onto Steve’s hand under the table as if it were an anchor.

Clint had been angry, Natasha unreadable, Pepper understandably upset, and Thor accepted it with the calm equanimity of a person to whom far stranger things had happened.

“That doctor,” said Steve. “At the hospital. She did say Sophia was healing remarkably fast.”

“Overnight, though?” asked Pepper, taking another piece of pizza. By the time Tony and Bruce had run all the tests and scans they could possibly think of, and Sophie had told her story, it was evening and no one had felt like cooking. Pizza always seemed to keep the peace, too.

“It’s not impossible,” said Tony. “I mean, Extremis…”

“I think I’d notice if I was glowing orange,” said Sophie. Extremis wasn’t something anyone talked about much, in deference to Pepper’s obvious discomfort whenever it came up. “And anyway, the last time I got hurt this badly I was healing for months, like a normal person. This is something new.”

“Maybe that’s why they came back,” said Bruce, quietly. “Because something’s changing. And they need you back in their possession.”

She looked at him.

“You think last week was the same people as the first time?”

“It’s a reasonable assumption,” said Bruce.

“Speaking of,” said Tony, “I looked through the footage of that night, and through JARVIS, and there’s nothing. They didn’t even show up on the cameras. All of us look like we’re fighting the Invisible Man, which is not, honestly, without some entertainment value. I also took a look at the gear we stripped off them before they pulled their disappearing act at the hospital and it’s stuff SHIELD would give their eye teeth to get their hands on—even I haven’t worked all of it out yet. The dampening thing that tricked the cameras, the material that masked their bio-signatures…either I’m really behind on stealth tech, or someone has been hoarding new technology. So whatever is going on, it’s big. They’re well equipped, well organized, single minded and apparently fixated on Sophie.”

He turned to her.

“But, why?” she asked, spreading her hands. “I’m just a librarian. I wasn’t even that the first time. I was party girl. What do they even want from me? What are they even doing?”

“I have a thought,” said Steve. They all turned to him. “Experiments. Unexpected fighting abilities. Accelerated healing. Sound like anyone you know?”

Sophie scoffed.

“Come off it, Cap, you really think they’d try to turn a shallow socialite into a—a supersoldier?” She looked into his face. “Oh my god, you’re serious,” she said in surprise. “Steve, I was the most useless person. There is not a single reason I can think of that anyone would look at me and go ‘That one there is perfect for my secret evil supersoldier project. I think I’ll take her’.”

He looked around at the team, their expressions ranging from Tony’s look of sarcasm to Clint’s look of doubt. Only Bruce looked thoughtful. Steve crossed his arms.

“It’s a thought,” he said, stubbornly.

“Regardless,” said Tony, “until we figure out what the hell is going on, Sophie is not to be left alone.”

“Tony, really?” protested Sophie.

“Don’t even. I’m not backing down on this. If I have to knock you out and lock you up, I will. You will have someone, either one of us, or security, or SHIELD, with you at all times. Even at night. Especially at night.”

Sophie opened her mouth to protest again, but Steve nudged her. “I’ve got the night shift,” he said, quietly. She closed her mouth, smiling.

“Aye-aye, Captain,” she whispered.

 

They made their way down to her apartment, later, after the meeting had broken up. She looked tired, Steve noticed. He took her hand. Something had changed, since last night, the care and handling of Sophie morphed yet again. When she was around others, save Natasha, there was always this part of her constantly on alert, the fight or flight mechanism on a hair trigger, an uninitiated touch at best making her jump. Now, when it was just them, she seemed...normal. Relaxed. As if his presence, his touch, no longer registered as a threat on any level.

As if he could reach out and touch her any time he wanted. The thought made him smile.

They walked into her apartment hand in hand.

“Movie?” Steve suggested. She dropped his hand to rub her eyes and yawned.

“As much as I would like to, I should go to sleep,” she said. She headed to her bedroom, pausing at the door when she noticed he wasn’t following. She looked back at him over her shoulder. “You coming or what?”

He grinned.

“Yes ma’am.”

* * *

 

The night passed without incident, as did the next few. Sophie healed completely within a few days, but neither of them tried to follow up on her actions the first night. Not that they didn’t enjoy each other’s company, as it were. Sophie seemed quite pleased to share a bed every night, and Steve greatly enjoyed the newfound ability to touch her whenever he felt like it. They were still in that giddy stage of a relationship, where everything was new and things that would eventually drive the other one crazy were endearing, and they—frankly—couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

Steve was continually amazed that someone like her was interested in him. He knew, technically, that women found him attractive (Clint, in one of his pranks, had changed Steve’s homepage on his tablet to a website named CaptainAmericasAss.com, which was pretty much what it sounded like. It had taken Steve two days to figure out how to change it back, because he’d been too embarrassed to ask anyone for help. But it had provided quite an insight into the public’s view of him. Or at least their views on his ass). But a part of him would always be that frail kid who had no idea how to talk to women and used awkward honesty like a shield.

And Sophie…Sophie was not only very smart and wickedly funny, but quite a looker, as Bucky would’ve said. And Steve never somehow quite got over the fact she thought the same of him.

It truly hit him one day, when he got out of his shower in the morning and wandered into her kitchen, wearing nothing but sweatpants, still toweling off his hair. Sophie had her back to him, waiting for the microwave to finish re-heating her tea.

“Is there any of that left?” he asked.

She turned around, her eyes widening as she saw him. Her spoon hit the floor with a clatter. He frowned in concern.

“Sophia? Are you alright?”

“Hng,” she said, staring at him, her eyes traveling over his body. She finally met his eyes, after pretty much undressing him with hers, not that it was much of a stretch. “How are you even real?” she muttered. “How did I get to a point where I pretty much have Achilles standing half naked in my kitchen on a regular basis?”

He blinked at her, flushing slightly. “I’m sorry, I’ll just go put on—“                                

“Nope,” she said, walking over to him. “No you won’t. Putting more things on would be counter-productive at this point because my plan is to take them all off.”

She grabbed his hand and dragged him to the bedroom, where they spent an enjoyable hour or so which made them both late for work and totally defeated the point of his shower. Not that he minded. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory Fourth of July birthday chapter. Sorry it's not actually on the fourth. Alsooooo...I just posted a five and one fic that's basically deleted scenes from this story that I couldn't find a place for. If you want some pointless character drivel.

The rest of the spring passed with no further threats, at least not to Sophie. The Avengers side of things was still business as usual, including a giant cyborg kraken that tried to eat Rhode Island for no apparent reason, and the ongoing, slightly weird rivalry between Doctor Doom and the Fantastic 4 that the Avengers kept getting drawn into. But things were calm enough that Tony relaxed his Sophie surveillance rule to the point where she wasn’t tripping over security every time she fetched a book from the stacks.

Summer arrived all at once, the city sullen and slow under the sticky warmth of a truly awful heat wave. The one good thing about it, Steve told Sophie, as they abandoned their outdoor café in favor of sitting in her heavily air conditioned apartment, was that this level of heat made his nightmares about the ice seem refreshing.

His birthday was approaching, and while he thought wistfully of repeating Sophie’s birthday date, the city—the country—was not about to let its beloved and oh-so-patriotic son have a quiet birthday at home with his girlfriend, especially since he shared a birthday with the good old U.S. of A, and the existence of said girlfriend was still technically unknown.

There was going to be a parade. And fireworks. And they were going to give him the keys to the city. And make him ride a float. In his Captain America outfit.

The thought was enough to make him consider asking Sophie for a few of her pills, except they probably wouldn’t work on him.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he said, the morning of his birthday. He was due, in uniform, at the parade’s start in half an hour.

So far he’d managed the “in uniform” part. He was having trouble with the next step, in that it involved leaving the Tower. Or his apartment.

“If I told you to think of it as just another battle, would that help?” asked Sophie, from the kitchen.

“Probably not, unless you want me to start punching the floral displays,” he said. She snorted.

“As entertaining as that image is, I don’t think it would go over well. I can see the headlines now—‘Carnation Carnage: National Icon Goes Berserk at Celebration’.”

Steve began to chuckle.

“Captain America, beloved hero and New York native, apparently suffered a mental breakdown today at the Independence Day Parade. The brave battler of HYDRA, aliens, and giant robo-squids was unable to face the sheer amount of tacky red, white and blue wreaths and badly done American flags made of roses with the wrong number of stripes,” Sophie intoned over Steve’s laughter, coming over with coffee.

  
“The breaking point for the Captain,” she continued, “was a particularly garish light-up display featuring four tiers of patriotically dyed carnations topped by a real taxidermy eagle. Unable to cope with its tastelessness, Cap split it in two with his signature shield and then attacked it with his bare hands, screaming something about not fighting the Nazis for this and being too old for this shit.

‘It was awful,’ said an eye witness to the scene of floral destruction. ‘Petals and feathers everywhere’.”

She stopped and handed him the coffee, grinning, as he tried to catch his breath. She looked him over as he drank. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen you in that before.”

The blue suit fit him like a second skin, albeit a conveniently armored one. It was perfect for battle, offering protection without restriction, and little for an enemy to grab onto to. It was so perfect for fighting that he’d never considered it in any other light, especially not the light Sophie was considering it in. He shifted, suddenly aware of how close-fitting it was under her appraising gaze. He didn’t think he would ever get used to the way she looked at him, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it.

“You’re gonna be late,” she said, lightly. He downed the rest of his coffee.

“I wish you could come up there with me.”

She laughed. “Because putting me on a float in a huge crowd is such a good idea. Flower carnage would be the least of our worries.”

He gave her a hangdog look. “That’s not what I meant.”

It was one of the ongoing discussions in their relationship, and one of the few sources of contention, the decision of when to go public, or if to go public at all. Steve was ready shout it from the top of the Tower, but Sophie knew what would come far better than he did, the publicity, the total lack of privacy, the constant photographs when all they wanted was a cup of coffee. And as much as she cared about him, she couldn’t cope with that. Not yet. But today was his birthday, and he just looked so sad. She softened.

“Tell you what, I’ll come up on the stage with the team. Pepper’s got enough assistants and handlers and whatnot these days that I’ll just blend right in.”

It was a little gift, so little compared to what he did for her every day, but the smile he gave her in return was so sunny it broke her heart she couldn’t give him more.

 

She stood on stage, perhaps not quite blending in with Pepper’s business suited posse in her navy blue and white sundress, but enough so the press didn’t immediately mark her as Iron Man’s party-girl-turned-kidnap-victim-turned-crazy-person cousin. Thank God for small mercies anyway.

She watched as Captain America turned up on a truly tacky float—not taxidermied bald eagle status, but still pretty bad—and was presented with the key to New York. She clapped politely after the mayor’s speech and more sincerely after the Captain’s, even if she wasn’t quite sure she recognized this version of him at all. He was so intentionally bland and wholesome and sincere that he sounded like a 1950s advertisement for washing machines. She never knew that sincerity could sound so fake.

She watched him throughout the remainder of the day, through New York high society’s version of a barbecue, intrigued by the strange creature trotted out for the public. She watched as he effortlessly worked the press and posed for pictures, remembering Tony’s second or third hand stories about Captain America’s career as a fundraising sideshow attraction. She wondered if that was the man she was seeing, this man who in almost no way resembled Cap, the confident tactician and warrior, Captain Rogers, the mildly bewildered and endearing science fiction buff, or Steve, her Steve, full of kindness and deadpan humor and an immense quiet strength.

The one glimpse she caught of Steve the entire time was when he knelt to sign a child’s starred shield, the bland mask slipping as he listened intently to what the little girl was saying, before breaking into a grin and giving her a high five. A movement must have caught his eye, because he looked up to see her watching him and gave her a crooked smile that made her breath catch because he was beautiful, and he was good, and he was hers, and she loved him.

Really loved him.

The moment slipped away, Captain America surfacing again as some politician dragged him away, but Sophie remained, staring into nothing, struck by the realization and wondering why, somehow, she wasn’t scared. Not even a little bit.

* * *

 

Steve stood on Tony’s penthouse balcony, leaning on the railing, watching fireworks explode across the sky. It had been a surprisingly good evening, a relief after the exhausting and hellishly hot parade and “barbecue.” Steve still couldn’t wrap his head around how that food could be called barbecue. What kind of a barbecue didn’t have hamburgers?

Fortunately, Tony (and by Tony Steve was pretty sure he meant Pepper and Sophie, and possibly Bruce) had a better understanding of Steve, and the small birthday celebration that night at the penthouse was more to his taste. There was even pie. And presents—useful, thoughtful things for the most part, the kind of gifts that he actually liked. Pepper had given him a new sketchbook and a drawing toolkit small enough to slip into his pocket, and Bruce tickets to both the Met Museum of Art and the MoMA. From Natasha and Clint, Steve had received a pair of 1943 Colt M1911s, and Thor had given him some Asgardian mead, swearing up and down that it would get him well and truly inebriated, if he should so desire.

Tony had presented him with The Idiot’s Guide to Navigating the Internet and a truly terrible poker face, before having JARVIS call up the plans for a motorcycle.

Not just any motorcycle, though. Captain America’s motorcycle. Which had been blown up during his last attack on the Red Skull, seventy years ago.

“I found Howard’s original plans. I’m rebuilding it,” Tony said. “Exactly as it was. Well, not exactly. There will be…modifications. Not that the flame thrower effect isn’t cool, but I think we all I know I can make it better. I meant to have it done by now, but the latest wave of Doombots threw off my schedule.”

Steve wasn’t able to say anything for the next five minutes, but Tony understood.

Sophie had given him a near mint, first edition, signed copy of The Illustrated Man, which immediately became his third most treasured possession.

And now he was on the balcony, with his friends, watching the fireworks.

He felt a hand slip through his arm and looked down to find Sophie beside him.

“Have a good birthday?” she asked. He considered.

“Better than most. Horrible floats aside.”

She snickered. “I must admit I was a little sad when you didn’t go berserk on the one with the eagle made of carnations that I’m fairly sure was actually a duck.”

He grinned.

“It was tempting. I really didn’t fight the Nazis so my fellow countrymen could assault each other with floral eagle-ducks.”

She snorted, and then leaned against his shoulder. He looked down at her, fondly.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “For what?”

“Coming today. The book. Making me laugh. Tonight, because I know you had a hand in it, no matter what Tony would like me to think. No one else knows my favorite pie is actually blackberry. Everyone always insists on apple.”

She laughed softly. “I’m glad you liked the pie. And your birthday.”

“It was a very good birthday.”

She looked up at him, mischief in her eyes and the hint of a smile on her lips.

“Oh, it’s not over yet.”

An answering smile spread across his face.

“Is that so, Miss Carbonell?”

“It is, Captain Rogers,” she said, pulling him down for a kiss.

 

They slipped away from the rest of the team and made their way down to his apartment, because it was closer. They both knew the elevator ride down the eighty-odd floors to her place would be too long to wait and neither of them wanted to give whoever watched the security cameras a free show. Again.

“I have another present for you,” she said, breaking away from him a little as they stumbled through his bedroom door.

“I hope you hid it in my apartment somewhere, because there is no way I’m leaving here for the rest of the night,” he said, pulling her close and kissing her again as he unzipped her dress and it fell to the floor. He wondered vaguely how she always managed to taste like cupcakes. They hadn’t even had cupcakes. He moved his attentions to her neck, one hand cupping her head and tilting it back to grant him better access.

“Steve,” she said, splaying her hands against his already naked chest, trying to hold onto her train of thought. “This is kind of important.”

“Mmm,” he said. He sank his teeth gently into her neck. Her breath hitched and she lost the ability to speak, and possibly stand. He pulled back after a moment.

“Well?”

“What?” she said, her eyes glazed.

“This present that apparently cannot wait. What is it?”

“Oh. Um.” She looked adorably flustered. “Well. Me.”

He frowned.

“I thought I already had you.” He gave a squeeze. “Yeah, pretty sure that’s you.” She swatted his hand, giggling.

“That’s not what I meant. I meant…well, I know you said after I was injured that I was in no condition to make that decision, but I am now and it’s your birthday and…I’m ready if you are. I’ve been ready.”

He pulled away a little, cupping her face in his hands, looking seriously into her eyes.

“You’re sure? I don’t want to rush you.”

She looked at him, exasperation tinged with fondness on her face.

“Will you stop asking me that? I’m more sure of this than I am about pretty much anything else, at this point.” She reached up to touch his face, smooth away his concerned earnestness. “Nothing about this, about us…nothing about it scares me anymore. I want you, I want to be with you. Steve, I…I love you.”

His breath caught in his throat.

“Sophia…” He whispered her name like it was something precious, like it was a prayer. He leaned forward to brush her lips with his, hardly daring to believe what he heard.

She smiled against his lips. “I love you,” she said again, and somehow it was even truer the second time.

He kissed her, this time in earnest, pulling her to him as she threw her arms around his neck. He had intended their first time to be slow, for them to take their time, but now in this moment all he could think was that he wanted more of her, to be as close to her as he possibly could. And judging by the way she was fumbling with his belt, she felt the same.

They fell onto the bed, shedding the last vestiges of their clothing, lips and tongues and hands searching for as much of each other as possible.

And then she was underneath him, all warm curves and soft skin and he didn’t think he could ever get tired of seeing her, touching her. He paused above her, her green eyes locked to his.

“Yes?” he asked, his voice rough, breathless.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Please…”

He sank into her as she arched up to him, capturing his mouth in a kiss. He started to move and she moaned, digging her nails into his shoulders, pulling him closer, closer, and he’d felt anything better or seen anything more beautiful than when she shuddered and came apart in his arms, over and over until he tumbled into oblivion.

* * *

 

“That was amazing,” he said, later.

“Mmm,” said Sophie agreeably from where she was draped over him, tracing little patterns on his chest with her fingertips. “I’d almost forgotten how much fun it is.”

“So it was…good? For you, I mean?” he asked, hesitantly. She smiled.

“Better than good. I don’t think I’ve had such good sex without being on something mildly illegal.” She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Not bad for your first try, soldier.”

 “You know,” he said, slowly. “I tend to get better at things with practice. If you want to…practice.”

She blinked at him in mock surprise.

“Why, Captain! Are you propositioning me?”

He flipped them over, pinning her gently to the mattress, which she found unexpectedly thrilling.

“Would you mind if I was, Miss Carbonell?” he asked, the glint of humor in his eyes mixing with something softer and far more dangerous. She snaked her arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss.

“Not at all.”


	13. Chapter 13

A few weeks after his birthday, Steve walked into the common area to find Sophia sitting at the breakfast bar, nursing a cup of tea and looking mildly miserable.

“Hey,” he said, softly. “Bad night?”

She smiled a bit, in spite of her obvious discomfort.

“No, the night was great. It’s always the mornings that are the problem.”

He frowned, not quite understanding. He looked at her closer. Her face was pale, she blinked as if the sunlight hurt her eyes and moved like the floor was never quite where she expected it to be. A suspicion formed, a ludicrous one, but persistent.

“Sophia, are you…are you hung over?”

She grinned into her mug.

“It was a very good night.”

She’d told him she was going out last night, with Natasha and some of her college friends who were in the Hamptons for the summer and made the trip into the city. But he hadn’t thought she would get drunk, let alone drunk enough to have a hangover. She looked up to find him staring at her with an expression of disbelief, touched with a smidge of disapproval. More than a smidge.

“What? I told you I was going out.”

He ran a hand over his hair. “Yes, but I never thought…what were you thinking?”

She blinked at him, taken aback. “I was thinking, oh yay my friends are in town? And then by the third bar, I was thinking, oh yay, another round?”

“Don’t you think that was maybe not the best idea?”

“Oh, who asked you and your high horse anyway?” she said, sourly. “You’re just jealous because you can’t even get drunk.”

“Sophia, that has nothing to do with this. I’m just trying to point out that going out and getting drunk is not exactly…safe.”

“Is here safe?” she asked, spreading her hands. “Last time someone tried to take me, it was in this very building, which has more security than the White House, the Pentagon and Langley combined. Anyway, I had Natasha with me. And nothing happened, other than me consuming maybe a few too many cocktails with stupid names.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, frustrated. “I meant that it was a room—multiple rooms, apparently—full of drunk strangers and that drunk strangers can get a little enthusiastic and because of your—your condition—“

“My condition?” she interrupted him, her voice rising. “Don’t you think that, of all people, I am aware of my ‘condition’? I know perfectly well where my limits are, thank you, and I don’t need anyone—least of all you—to remind me that I am somewhat less than fully functional. I know how to take care of myself.”

“Sophia, I know you can,” he said patiently. “I’m just…concerned. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

She stared at him, sardonic. He persisted, leaning on the breakfast bar and looking earnestly into her face.

“Because going out and getting drunk doesn’t seem quite…normal. For you.”

Her mouth twisted in irritation.

“Oh, fuck you. You have no idea—no idea—what I was like before the kidnapping, no idea what normal is for me. If anything, the fact that I can go to the bars and get fucking hammered without having a mental breakdown should be taken as a positive sign.”

“There’s no need for that kind of language,” he said, taken aback.

“Oh I think there is,” she said, sliding off her chair to confront him. “You have this habit of treating me like some delicate fucking flower, wrapping me in cotton wool and putting me on a pedestal, far out of reach and out of the way of anything that can hurt me. And while it was cute for about five minutes, I’m sick of it.”

“I don’t treat you like that,” he said, his own voice rising now. “I just want to—“

“To what? Protect me? Save me from myself and my bad, childish decisions?” Her voice was biting, sarcastic, and Steve wondered not for the first time how much of Tony’s personality actually came from his mother’s side. “I’m an adult, Steve, I know my own boundaries, and I know how to deal with the mess that is my life. I survived without you for years after the kidnapping, and I’m better now than I ever have been. If that experience didn’t utterly break me, at this point I don’t think anything can, certainly not a night out with my friends.

“And everyone else gets that. Natasha gets it, Tony gets it, Pepper gets it, even Clint, overprotective ass that he is, gets it. When I need help, when I’m having trouble coping, I’ll fucking let you know. And you know that. So I don’t think this conversation is about me and my night out. I think this is about something else.”

He stood there, jaw clenched, trying to and failing to come up with words. Because she was right, dammit. She folded her arms.

“Well?”

“I just—I don’t like the idea of you going out to those places without—without me.”

She raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “Really? Because you don’t trust me to take care of myself, or because you don’t trust anyone else?”

“Because you’re mine!” he burst out. He knew it was a stupid thing to say to her, she who guarded her independence as fiercely as only someone who had been dependent on others for too long could. But he couldn’t help himself. The idea of her, out there, all dressed up for a night out, in a room full of drunken men looking for their next hook up was almost too much for him to deal with.

Her face shut down, her jaw tightening and her eyes shuttered. He closed his eyes, passed a hand over his face.

“Sophia, I…I didn’t—“

“No,” she said, quietly. “I am not having this conversation right now.” She turned to leave. “Come find me when you pull your head out of your early twentieth century ass.”

“Sophia, wait,” he said, and took a step forward to grab her arm and pull her back. She froze, looking down at his hand, then up into his eyes, an expression of pure disbelief on her face. He let go as if she burned him, realization of what he was doing draining the color from his face.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “Sophia, I am so sorry.”

She just looked at him, her face devoid of any emotion.

“If you ever— _ever_ —touch me like that again, we are done. We are fucking done.”

She left. Steve leaned on the counter, his head in his hands, wondering what the hell he had just done. After a moment, a small noise made him look up to see Tony leaning against the door frame, his face a mask of amiability, a sure sign he was actually furious.

“Tony. How long have you…”

“Long enough,” said the smaller man. “You do that again, Spangles, and I’ll kill you myself.” A cheerful smile flashed lightning fast across his face. “Just so you know.”

Steve said nothing, just nodded, dropping his head back into his hands. Tony left, leaving Steve alone with his thoughts.

* * *

 

Steve spun his shield at the last creature, almost disappointed as it went down and no more popped up. He never thought he’d be grateful for a plague of giant genetically engineered rhinoceros-hyena hybrids in Iowa, but they had provided a convenient distraction and an appropriate target for his anger—anger which was mostly at himself. It had been three days since the argument, and he hadn’t talked to Sophia since, mostly because he had no idea how to start.

“I think that was the last of them, guys,” said Tony through the comms.  “Clean-up crew’s half a mile out, I can see them.”

Steve sat down on a handy chunk of masonry and pulled the cowl down, running his hands through his hair. The rest of the team wandered over to join him and watch as the clean-up crew arrived and got to work, laughing and making snark-filled comments that Steve didn’t really hear. Tony flew off towards California, saying something about Pepper killing him if he missed another date night, while the rest of them boarded the jet to New York. Natasha and Clint settled in up front, leaving the other three to make themselves comfortable in the back. Steve felt their eyes on him.

“Cap…” said Bruce, his voice gentle, concerned.  Steve stood up abruptly, not really feeling like dealing with the oncoming heart-to-heart talk he knew they were about to give him, and turned around to meet the solid wall of Thor. Apparently he wasn’t getting out of this that easily.

“Natasha has told us that you and Lady Sophia have had…words,” said Thor. Steve shot an exasperated look at the back of the red head in the co-pilot’s seat. Was there anything she didn’t know?

“And that you haven’t talked to her since,” continued Bruce.

“Steven, I would offer you my help in this matter, if you desire it,” said Thor. Steve almost snorted. Thor offering relationship advice. Now there’s a scary thought.

“Guys, I appreciate the sentiment, but can we just…not, right now?”

Thor nodded, but his face still radiated worried affection.

“You should talk to her,” said Bruce. Steve sat down as abruptly as he had stood up, scrubbing his face with his hands.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

Bruce shot him a brief, sideways smile.

“’I’m sorry’ is usually a good place to begin.”

* * *

 

Sophie looked up to see Steve standing by her desk, his demeanor nervous and uncertain. If he had been holding his shield, she was sure he would’ve been twiddling it. She sighed.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, simply. “You were right. And I’m an idiot.”

She stared at him. This was not, in her experience, the general male reaction to an argument.

“What I did was…unacceptable. But I was hoping we could go somewhere and talk about this?”

She stared at him some more. He shifted, uncomfortable.

“Melinda?” she called over her shoulder, still looking at him. “I’m going out for a bit.”

 

They went for a walk in Central Park, grabbing drinks on the way, mostly so they’d have something to do with their hands.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“What for this time?” she asked, her voice sardonic. But by now he knew half the time sarcasm was how her family showed affection, and the other half it was a defense mechanism.

“Everything I said. I know you don’t…belong to me. That was an outdated notion even when I’m from, at least to my mind. And I guess I am overly protective. But only because the idea of losing you, or the idea of something causing you pain if I could prevent it…It terrifies me. I know that’s not an excuse, but you at least deserve to know the reason.”

He glanced at her, but she was staring at her iced tea like it was fascinating. He persevered anyway.

“Also, I really have no idea what I’m doing. This is my first relationship, my first…everything, nearly. In a time I still haven’t got the hang of. But I’m trying. And I’ll keep trying, as long as you let me.”

She stopped walking and turned to stare at him again, struck yet again by his easy honesty and his apparent complete lack of touchy pride.

“You’re an idiot,” she said, but she was smiling as she said it. He smiled back at her, tension he wasn’t even aware he had been holding easing in his chest.

“I know.”

And then she was in his arms, holding him tight as she leaned her head against his shoulder. He hugged her back, gently.

“You really do have to trust me to know myself,” she said. “If I need help I’ll let you know.”

“I know.” he said again. “I’ll try. I promise. Do you forgive me?”

“I don’t know,” she said, with a small sigh. “But I will.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, lovelies. On the plus side, you get two chapters!

The opportunity for Steve to simultaneously regret his promise and live up to it came sooner than he expected. His and Sophie’s relationship was…well, not fine, exactly, what with him constantly apologizing for everything little thing he did, and her politely assuring him that it was fine, no really, and the both of them moving in a careful, awkward dance that drove everyone batty.

The team was gathered in the common area for a movie night. They had planned to start early, because the movie was apparently a long one, but they were still waiting on Sophia to come up from the library, and Pepper to be done wrangling plans for the next charity event. Clint and Natasha were on the couch, while Thor was sprawled on the floor like an overgrown golden retriever. Bruce was having an argument with an ancient VHS player, since the movie of the night wasn’t digitized or even on DVD, and Tony was “making” snacks—which meant microwaving bag after bag of popcorn and toasting some poptarts.

Steve walked back into the common area from the bathroom few moments later to find a terrifying tableau. Tony was still in the kitchen, stopped in the act of pouring popcorn into a bowl. Clint and Natasha were standing behind the couch, as if it were a barricade, and Thor crouched in front of it, his hand half outstretched as if beginning to call for Mjolnir. All four of them were staring at the enormous and unwelcome sight of the Hulk.

And standing between them, looking small and out of place and nonchalantly holding a bowl of popcorn, was Sophie.

Steve stomach plummeted. He started for her, but she caught the movement and shot him a look that stopped him dead, the same look she gave him when he tried to help her at the hospital, or asked her if she was sure about something for the billionth time. The look that just said _Don’t_.

“Hey, handsome,” she was saying, softly to the Hulk. “Haven’t seen you for a while. What brings you out?”

Hulk held up the VHS player, now a mangled piece of plastic that was kind of smoking slightly. “Sparks,” he rumbled.

Sophie assessed it. “Shorted out, huh? I told Tony it wouldn’t be compatible with his toys, but he never listens to me.”

“Stupid,” said the Hulk. Sophie grinned.

“You got that right,” she said. “But you know better than he does, don’t you? You listen to me.” Her voice had changed, sounding like the way you talk to half-feral dogs or frightened children. “How ‘bout you put that down and come up to the roof with me like last time? We like the roof, right? We can look down at all the little people and feed popcorn to the pigeons.”

Hulk appeared to consider, and then his fist shot out to punch through a window. Everyone flinched. Sophie popped another piece of popcorn in her mouth.

“There are doors, big guy. I think we had this talk.”

“Too long,” said the Hulk. Sophie shrugged and held out a hand to him.

“C’mon then.”

Hulk picked her up, tucked her against him and then sprang out the window. Steve could hear the crunch of stone and occasional tinkle of glass as he leapfrogged his way up the next few floors.

Steve turned the rest of his team accusingly, only to find most of them staring at him with identical expressions of shock.

“Odin’s beard,” said Thor.

“What the hell was that?” asked Natasha and Clint together.

Steve shook his head, at a total loss. Thor turned to Tony, who had turned his attention to preventing the poptarts from catching on fire.

“Anthony, did you not know your fair cousin could tame the Hulk? It is a most useful skill.”

“No, I knew,” said Tony, not looking up. “Kind of. It’s only happened once before.”

They all turned accusing stares on Tony.

“What?” snapped Clint. “When? Why didn’t you tell us?”

Tony shrugged. “About a month after she moved in. No one else was home, it was just the three of us. Bruce and I were running some…experiments, which didn’t exactly go as planned. The Hulk decided to make an appearance, and before I could do anything, Sophie just waltzed in, asked him if he wanted to feed the pigeons with her and then they high-tailed it to the roof. How she deduced he liked feeding pigeons, I’ll never know.” He looked around at them all. “And it’s not my business what Sophie tells you. Or doesn’t tell you. Anymore than it is yours what she tells anyone else.”

“Is it…is she safe?” asked Steve, unable to help himself. Tony shrugged again.

“She was last time. The thing about the Hulk, which no one ever seems to realize, is he reacts to being attacked, and he reacts to fear, mostly because in his experience, fear leads to people attacking him.  If you’re not attacking him, and you’re not afraid of him, he’s not a bad guy. Not very talkative, a little prone to breaking stuff, but not a bad guy. But if you’re still worried…JARVIS, bring up a visual on roof.”

The tv screen flicked into life, showing Hulk stretched out on the roof, staring at the sky, and Sophie sitting cross-legged next to him, talking animatedly. Pigeons ambled around both of them, pecking at pieces of popcorn.

The team stared. Tony grinned.

“And what are they talking about, J?”

“Miss Carbonell is telling the Hulk a story, sir. Based on a mention of mattresses, it seems to be a rendition of The Princess and the Pea.”

“Last time it was, what, Cinderella? And then Bruce spent the next week straight watching old Disney movies in the lab. I may never forgive Sophie for that.”

He held up a plate full of slightly crisped pastries.

“Poptart?”

* * *

 

Sophie and Bruce ambled downstairs hours later, deep in a conversation about overhauling the bookmobile service for the pediatric wards in the lower income hospitals. They broke off as they noticed everyone was sitting somewhat tensely around the common area—except for Tony and Thor, who had given in to the lack of interest about a movie and were playing Mario Kart.

“Everything ok?” asked Pepper, ever the mother of the group.

“Fine,” said Sophie, breezily, over the start of Bruce’s apology. He gave her a shy half-smile and she grinned at him. “It’s good to break out my story telling skills to an appreciative audience every now and then. No one here likes fairy tales as much as I do.”

Steve watched them, his anxiety for her safety turning into something slightly uncomfortable that he couldn’t place.

“You guys eat all the poptarts?”

“Tony burned them all,” said Clint. “And then Thor ate them anyway.”

“Eh, I guess they’re probably not a proper dinner anyway,” said Sophie. “I think that Chinese place a few blocks over is still open. Anyone want anything?”

Sophie looked them over as everyone made demurrals, until her eyes lit on Steve, who tried to give her a smile which wasn’t exactly successful. She came over and grabbed his hand.

“You come with, you’re always hungry. And anyway,” she said, dropping her voice, “then we can talk about this, since judging by the way you look like a kicked puppy, you apparently need to.”

His mouth quirked up into small smile. “Am I that easy to read?”

She just looked at him.

“Oh honey.”

* * *

 

“Right,” she said, as they dropped into a corner booth. “First of all, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my weird Hulk taming abilities—which, might I add, I think run in the family, because Tony can pretty much do the same thing. We’re cocky little shits, the lot of us, and I think Hulk likes that.”

She paused, waiting for the agreeing smile she knew he’d give her.

“I know I said I’d be honest with you,” she continued, “but there is just so much weird in my life that I can’t remember every single out of the ordinary thing which might be important to tell you. I promise I will tell you when they come up, or when I remember them. Ok?”

“Ok,” he said. The server arrived with their tea and they ordered—enough to feed a small battalion, but all the restaurants within walking distance of the Tower were too used to them to blink. Although most of them had made the Avengers swear to call at least two hours in advance if Thor, Bruce and Steve were all coming at once.

The server left and Steve looked over to find Sophie looking at him with narrowed eyes.

“There’s still something,” she said. “Spill.”

“I didn’t know Bruce and you were that close,” he said. Not really what was bugging him, but he couldn’t really figure out what was bugging him, so it was as good a place as any to start. She looked at him, confused.

“We’re not, really. I think the conversation down from the roof was the longest one we’ve ever had outside of one of Tony’s damn parties. I don’t know if you noticed but he tends to keep to himself.”

“But you…I mean, he just picked you up and carried you off,” said Steve. Sophie stared at him, a slow, disbelieving smile spreading across her face.

“Cap, are you jealous?”

He said nothing, just shifted uncomfortably, heat rising to his cheeks.  “It’s not funny,” he muttered. She sobered.

“Oh my god, you actually are. Cap.” She took his hand across the table and he looked up. “Steve. First of all, Bruce didn’t pick me up and carry me off. The Hulk did. They’re totally different people. They register totally differently to me. And second, there is nothing between me and Bruce. In fact his whole quiet zen master thing kind of weirds me out. Not to mention he’s utterly unavailable and pining for his ex-girlfriend, according to Tash.”

“But…the Hulk…” Steve trailed off, unsure of how to even phrase that sentence. Sophie raised an eyebrow.

“Steve. Do I seriously have to tell you I don’t have some kind of crush on the Hulk? Because he’s essentially a half ton three year old with spectacular tantrums. And just…no.”

Steve closed his eyes, willing his imagination to shut down at that thought.

“No. No. I mean, you said Bruce and the Hulk register as two different people to you. And Hulk is…fine?”

“Oh. Yeah. Weird, isn’t it?” she said, picking up her tea. He gave her an exasperated look and she sighed.

“Look, if you want me to give you some sort of explanation for the way my hilariously malfunctioning brain sorts out friend from foe, you’re about to be severely disappointed. All I know is that the Hulk doesn’t register as a threat, somehow. I don’t know why. Maybe we just have too much in common.

“Bruce can make me freak out, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear,” she said, shooting Steve an amused glance. “But there are only three—no, four—people who don’t register as a threat. Normally, anyway. If I’m in one of my panic attacks all bets are off.”

“Who?” Steve asked. “If you don’t mind telling me. You don’t have to.”

“I don’t mind. Honesty, remember? Hulk, obviously. Tasha, but you knew that. My mother’s cat, who I maintain is a person no matter what anyone else says. And you.”

Steve blinked at her. She gave him a half smile.

“Yeah. It didn’t really hit me until after our…fight.”

Steve flushed, the memory of his actions still a horrible knot in his chest. He opened his mouth to say something, apologize again, but she interrupted.

“Shut up, I’m not done. The point is, I should’ve freaked out.  I think the fact I didn’t scared me more than anything else. Ask Tony, he found me afterwards, and I was a total mess. But a…normal mess. If you know what I mean. Don’t get me wrong, if you ever do anything like that again, I will leave you, but…still.”

“Still,” he agreed.

Their food arrived and they talked of more normal things while they ate, including potential superhero visits to the pediatrics wards along with the bookmobile—“Oh my god, story time with Captain America, this needs to be a thing”—the plague of rhino-hyena hybrids—“I mean, _Iowa_? The only reason I can think of is that the rent prices are low”—and Clint’s latest prank on Tony that everyone knows about but Tony has yet to discover—“Sometimes I think we should tell him, but then I picture his face as the potatoes fly off and I think ‘Naaaaah’.”

They finished their meal and headed back to the Tower, arms linked.

“I don’t think I thanked you,” said Sophie. Steve gave her an inquisitive look.

“For trusting me today, I mean. For believing I could handle it. There’s not many people who wouldn’t freak out when they see their girlfriend facing down the Hulk.”

Steve let out a slightly shaky laugh.

“Oh, I was, believe me. Not leaping between the two of you was definitely in the top three hardest things I’ve ever done.”

“But you didn’t,” she said. “So thank you.”

 

They got home and found everyone still congregated in the common room, arguing over which Star Trek series was better, a battle which Sophie leapt into with vehemence, especially after Clint made the mistake of declaring Star Wars was better  anyway. Steve exchanged a delightfully anticipatory glance with Natasha and settled in to watch Sophie tear him to little bloody pieces. Steve tried to mitigate the evisceration at one point, and Sophie shot him a look, a normal look, full of sarcasm and exasperation and annoyance and he almost laughed with relief because she hadn’t looked at him like that since before their fight. He never thought he’d be so glad to see her annoyed at him, because it meant things were finally back to usual.

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halloween fluff and some Marvel shout-outs. I may have an intense love of costumes...

“So what are you going as?”

Steve and Sophie were having their usual Friday coffee, the topic of conversation being the Tower Halloween party that weekend, although really the conversations at the Tower had been about little else for the last few weeks. For some reason everyone—everyone—loved Halloween.

Tony, of course, despite being something of a changed man, still loved a good party, the steadfastly practical Pepper was apparently not immune to the allure of playing dress up, and Bruce got this small gentle smile when he talked about Halloween as a kid that meant he was remembering one of the few happy moments from his childhood. Natasha’s face betrayed nothing, but the way she watched Clint bounce around like an excited child spoke volumes. And Thor…faced with a night of unbridled debauchery, alcohol, sweets, scary stories and the chance—no, the obligation—to dress in costume…Steve had never seen a demigod weep with joy before. It was an experience he hoped never to repeat, especially the part where the breath got squeezed out of him in one of Thor’s exuberant hugs. Apparently Thor was now planning on bringing a delegation from Asgard to partake in this truly marvelous Midgardian custom. Steve only hoped the furniture would survive.

“I don’t know what I’ll be going as, but I know I’ll be going in the pouffiest damn dress I can find,” said Sophie. “I never pass up a chance to pretend I’m a Disney princess. What about you?”

“I don’t know,” said Steve. Real Halloween costumes weren’t exactly an option when he was a kid—a single mother raising a sick child in the Great Depression didn’t leave a lot of extra money. And now that he had the means for such things, he was slightly at a loss. He almost wished Tony’s abortive attempt to get everyone to dress like the Justice League had succeeded. At least Superman costumes were easy to find.

“Everyone keeps telling me it’s a chance to be someone else for a night, or be the thing I always wanted to be when I grew up but…I’ve already done that.”

Sophie just looked at him and then threw back her head and laughed and laughed. Steve didn’t mind. By now he knew that when she laughed at some earnest thing he said, it was out of delight that, in her words, someone like him even existed. He gave her a crooked smile.

“What? It’s true.” He had spent his entire childhood wishing he was stronger, wishing he could help, and then his young adulthood wishing he could fight for his country, do his part, save, protect. And then he got his wish.

“I know,” she said, wiping her eyes. And she did. “But really, there’s no one you admired as a kid, no one you saw or read about and thought ‘I wish I could be like that’?”

He opened his mouth to tell her no, not really, but then a thought formed. He frowned.

“You know, actually…there is.”

“Good!” said Sophie. “I look forward to this insight into your psyche.”

“Halloween costumes provide insights into the psyche?”

“’Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth’” she quoted.

“So what does it say about you that you like to pretend to be a Disney princess?” he asked.

“That I’m a child of my generation, hopelessly affected by consumerism and the commercialization of romance,” she said. “But mostly that I really, really like tulle.”

* * *

 

By the time Sophie had wrangled herself into her dress—not as much of a horrendous confection as she’d originally gone looking for, but she hadn’t been able to pass up the saccharine pink shade—and gotten downstairs, the party was in full swing. She didn’t see Steve, but as the press was in attendance, they probably shouldn’t spend too much time around each other anyway. She heard rather than saw Thor and his Asgardians and wondered how anyone could possibly make that much noise. She spotted Bruce, though, his back turned to her, and went over to him, figuring they might as well keep up the tradition of being awkward party buddies.

“Hey.”

He turned around.

“Hey yourself,” he said, looking her up and down. “You know for all your talk of puffy princess dresses, I expected you to be wearing at least half a fabric store.”

She grinned. “I couldn’t pass up the pink. It was just too much. And what are you tonight? No, don’t tell me, let me guess.” She looked him over, taking in the tail coat, the cravat and the long-stemmed pipe he held in one gloved hand.

“Sherlock Holmes?”

“An admirable deduction,” he said.

“Where’s your deerstalker?”

“Sherlock Holmes was never described as wearing a deerstalker, and even if he had worn one, it never would have been in the city, let alone to a ball,” said Bruce, a tad more intensely than necessary. Sophie blinked at him, and then started to grin.

“Oh my god, you’re a Holmesian.”

Bruce looked mildly embarrassed. “It’s just nice that there’s a beloved character celebrated for his intelligence rather than his…”

“Muscles?” Sophie suggested. “So tell me, Dr. Banner, which story’s your favorite?”

They talked Holmes literature for a while, Bruce showing more enthusiasm than she knew he was capable of, and went on to the adaptations, with Bruce preferring Rathbone and Sophie firmly coming down on the side of Jeremy Brett, but both agreeing that the recent BBC adaptations were a thing of beauty, breaking off only when Tony came up holding drinks, breaking off only when Tony came up holding drinks, a card reading 10/6 stuck in the band of his oversized top hat.

 “Oh my god, did you guys plan this?” he asked. “You have to have planned this. I can’t believe you didn’t let me in on this, I would’ve been the best Moriarty.”

They both looked at him, lost.

“What?”

Tony handed Bruce a glass. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said, waving a hand at Sophie “meet Irene Adler.”

Sophie stared down at her dress, realization setting in. It was indeed Victorian, or at least Victorian enough to fool the casual observer, complete with a small bustle in the back. She started to laugh.

“Even if her dress were period, it’s nearly five years too early,” protested Bruce. He was weirdly literate in Victorian fashion, a hazard of being a Holmesian, Sophie supposed.

“Oh, let’s just run with it,” said Sophie, still chuckling. “At the very least it’ll be entertaining. Think of the tabloids.”

Playing tricks on the paparazzi had become a much loved past time for everyone, mostly because they were such a damn nuisance and, as Tony had pointed out, if they were busy chasing false leads, it would be harder for them to figure out who was actually dating who.

“Run with what?”

Sophie looked over and saw Steve join their little circle. She looked him over as Bruce and Tony explained. He looked...strangely normal, for a man at a Halloween party, wearing a dark suit and a fedora, hands in his pockets. It took her a moment to realize the cut of the suit was definitely not modern—guessing by the way he seemed so comfortable, it must be at least from the 1940s. He laughed as he got the joke.

“You should definitely run with it,” he said.

“Well in that case,” Bruce turned to her, holding out a hand. “Care for a dance, Miss Adler?”

“Why Mr. Holmes,” she said, taking it. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Steve and Tony watched them as they started to waltz. They made a good looking pair, Bruce’s somber and meticulously accurate costume highlighting the exuberant girlishness of Sophie’s.

“I haven’t seen her this happy since she was in college,” said Tony. “In general, I mean.”

“Was she happy?” asked Steve, watching her laugh as Bruce fumbled a box step. “Before…everything?”

“Oh yeah. She likes to say she was a party girl, a useless socialite, and really, she club-hopped with the best of them and could outdrink everyone, but…she was happy. Actually happy. And she somehow got other people to be happy with her. Even me. She never got that hollowness the rest of that crowd did. I blame her childhood, her family is disgustingly functional.”

So many of them, on the team, in their strange little family, had childhoods full of sadness and pain and darkness, if they could even be said to have had childhoods at all. Steve remembered his mother’s worried eyes, her constantly working hands, their ever-changing tenement housing, her cough and the bloodstained rags, and couldn’t imagine what it would be like to come from a place of happiness, of stability.

“I think that was the worst thing about the kidnapping. She was so happy before, in a way none of us were, me and Pepper and Rhodey and Happy, in a way all of us envied and wanted, and when we got her back…she wasn’t. It was like the one proof we had that good things actually existed got taken away.”

Steve stared down Tony, struck anew by how much Sophie actually meant to the man. Bruce and Sophie rejoined them, and Tony whisked Bruce away to go science at Reed Richards, leaving Sophie and Steve alone.

“I give up,” she said.

He raised an enquiring eyebrow at her.

“Your costume. I give up. I have no idea, unless you’ve decided to come as yourself from seventy years ago.”

In response, he pulled a hand out of his pocket and tossed something to her. She caught it and held it up. Nestling in her pink-gloved hand was a small black figurine of a falcon.

“Really?” she said. “Well I never.” She looked genuinely surprised. He felt strangely pleased. “Books or movie?”

“Book. Well, I saw the movie first, and then I tracked down the books. The 1931 movie, I never got around to seeing the ’41 until last year. They toned it down quite a lot, I was kind of disappointed.”

She tossed the little black bird back to him.

“I don’t know what I expected when I said you should dress up as someone you wished you were like as a kid, but it definitely wasn’t Sam Spade.”

“Gaining any insights into my psyche?” he asked, his tone dry.

“Hmm.” She narrowed her eyes at him, tapping her lips with an index finger.

“Sam Spade. Hardboiled private eye, can take care of himself and get the better of nearly anyone in a fight, has an eye for the ladies and surprisingly little compunction about acting on that—kind of a letch, actually. And you were…what, fourteen when The Maltese Falcon came out?”

Steve nodded. Sophie stared at him, eyes still narrowed, still thinking.

“Dislikes guns. Very sharp, but not flashy about it. Tends to be trustworthy when the cards are down. Driven by a deep need for justice, even if it has to be personally dealt out instead of obtained through the system, even if it causes him pain.”

She stared at him some more. And then she started to laugh.

“Oh, Steve. Even when you’re intentionally being not you, you’re still so…you. Tell me, was it his ability to fight or his confidence with women fourteen year old you coveted more?”

“He didn’t take crap from anyone,” Steve said, looking down as though slightly embarrassed. “He didn’t have to. I had to all the time as a kid, because it was either that or get killed, really. Although, yeah, his ability to talk women into…talk to women at all was a pull,” he finished, shooting her a blue-eyed look and a grin. She chuckled.

“So what insights do everyone else’s costumes give you?” he asked.

“I haven’t seen anyone else’s yet,” she said. “I only just got here.”

He grinned. “Oh, wait til you see Thor’s. You won’t believe this.”

She matched his smile.

“Lead on, Mr. Spade.”

 

* * *

 

They both remembered the rest of the night as snapshots, or little snippets of video, moments of colors and joyful noise.

 

Jane and Thor in the couple’s costume to end all couple’s costumes, which made everyone wish they’d curbed his Disney movie addiction, because they’d gone as Tarzan and Jane, down to the loincloth and Thor throwing Jane over his shoulder to carry her off, while she laughed helplessly, pith helmet falling to the floor and stolen by Darcy.

Pepper, dressed in some frothy white thing which far outdid Sophie’s in puffiness and a small crown, falling over giggling with Jane and Sue Storm at Darcy, pith helmet askew and clashing horribly with her pirate outfit, riding Volstagg’s shoulders while Sif rode Fandral’s, engaged in possibly the most dangerous game of chicken the earth had ever seen, while Hogun looked on disapprovingly.

Sophie dancing again with Bruce while the press snapped photos and their eyes lit up as they were told it was a matching costume. The pictures made front page of some tabloids, and even showed up in The Daily Bugle. The accompanying speculation filled stories—padded with hinting quotes from “a source close to the couple, who wished to remain nameless,” which in all honesty was Clint with a look of boy scout integrity on his face—later made everyone laugh for hours.

Clint hanging from a chandelier, having drunk enough that the acrobat in him bubbled to the surface, and Tony yelling at him to get _down_ , did he even know how much that chandelier _cost_ , so help me Barton if you break it I will dock your pay for the rest of your _life_. Clint only grinned and chucked his plastic fireman’s hat at Tony, knocking off his ridiculous top hat.

Thor, Sif and the Warriors Three, all belting out and stomping along with _Tubthumping_ , which had to be Darcy’s fault, vehemently conducting with full glasses, Darcy still on Volstagg’s shoulders, while both Rhodey and Fandral watched her with admiring looks that boded ill for everyone involved. _I get knocked down, but I get up again, you’re never gonna keep me down…_

Steve lindy-hopping with Natasha, of all people, who looked deceptively delicate and ethereal in her white ballerina outfit, both of them bringing the same energetic agility to the dance they had while sparring, while Sophie leaned on Tony’s shoulder and bemoaned her height because lindy-hop looked like so much fun, and Darcy complained on his other side that no one told her he and Pepper would be going as the Mad Hatter and the White Queen, because she had the most adorable Alice outfit at home.

Sophie and Natasha matching Sif shot for shot until the bottle was gone, none of them really showing any affect, collecting an admiring crowd of men and quite a lot of bet money, Sophie’s share of which she shoved down her bodice, messing up the fall of the frothy lace there and looking over at Steve with a mischievous wink while mouthing _apple juice_ at him. He tried to frown disapprovingly at them, using their feminine wiles to fleece men of money, and failed miserably.

Tony and Bruce and Reed getting into an argument how to build a TARDIS, Tony’s bow tie half undone, Reed’s magician costume getting increasingly mussed and Bruce jabbing his pipe at both of them for emphasis as Pepper and Sue looked on, rolling their eyes.

Hogun holding Fandral and Rhodey apart by their collars as they slurred insults at each other while Darcy watched goggle-eyed and finally solved the whole thing by punching Fandral in the arm and then kissing him. Tony brought the bereft Colonel a drink and patted his shoulder as Thor and Volstagg stomped by, Sif somehow doing flips between them, all bellowing out “He takes a whiskey drink, he takes a vodka drink!”

Steve sauntering— _sauntering_ —she blamed the fedora—over to Sophie at around two in the morning, after most of the press had either left or passed out to claim her for a dance, while Tony and Pepper floated past, Tony shooting at them “You wanna watch that Miss Adler, Spade, she’s trouble.”

“I don’t mind a reasonable amount of trouble,” said Steve, looking at her with the crooked smile that always made her breath catch. And then, later, leaning down to whisper in her ear “Just how much trouble are you, Miss Carbonell?”

And Sophie, never able to resist an obvious challenge, cocked her head at him. “Wanna find out?”

 

Sophie, up against a wall in a hallway not even the next floor up, hair falling down, skirts frothing around her hips and legs twined around him as Steve held her up and sank his teeth into her neck, putting those clever artist’s hands of his to her favorite use. Not to be outdone she reached between them to undo his fly and was rewarded by a soft groan.

“Sophia…” It was a warning, a question, a small voice of disbelief that meant _here, really_? But she knew he was fully capable of hoisting her up and carrying her off if he really meant it, and he manifestly wasn’t, so she took him in hand and guided him to her and he let out a noise that was practically a growl. She cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Trouble enough for you?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asgardians and Tubthumping shamelessly stolen from this superhusbands fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/314102/chapters/503103. It is hilarious.
> 
> Fun fact: All of the clothes Sophie wears are real and can be found here: http://pinterest.com/elzebrook/touch/ along with some other inspirationy things. Except for the Christmas dress which I apparently hallucinated, because I can’t find it again. Be warned though, some of the pins are regarding things that haven't happened yet...


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And because the last few chapters were plot and fluff, have some feels.
> 
> Steve feels, to be precise.

It was a stupid idea. Steve had known that all along, but now—as he hung on to the hover craft like hell, the buildings crashing down all around them, explosions rocking the ground, fire licking his suit and scorching his skin—he could actually admit it.

“After all this, Captain America, all you went through to get to me, you fail now? I am almost disappointed.”

Steve gritted his teeth. The supervillian tendency to gloat pissed him off to no end, but at least it meant they gave him a few valuable extra seconds.

“Such a shame it had to end this way.” A foot lifted to stamp on the fingers of the hand clinging on for dear life. “You are going down, Captain America.”

“If I’m going down,” he said, his free hand finally reaching the EMP arrowhead he’d stolen from Clint, “You’re sure as hell going with me.”

He triggered it. The engines cut and the man howled with rage as they plummeted to the ground far, far below them.

* * *

 

Steve sat on the retaining wall, his feet dangling out over nothing, looking at the city spread out before him, all the little lights blurred by the alcohol. Not by tears, he told himself. Not tears.

He heard the crunch of footsteps over gravel behind him.

“Tony send you up here to give me the ‘we’re concerned about you’ speech?” he asked.

“No. But if you want I can. You’ve given it to everyone else at one point or another, it’s only fair you get it at least once.”

Sophia. Of all people who could’ve come up here, she was the one he least wanted to face right now.

She stopped a few feet behind him.

“You gonna tell me what this is about, then?” she asked.

“No,” he said shortly. He poured another shot and knocked it back, setting the bottle beside him. She said nothing, just stared out at the city.

 “I’m not going anywhere,” she said after a few minutes. “Whether or not you talk.”

“Goddammit, why not? Why won’t everyone just leave me alone?”

He’d endured a whole day of this, of their caring, their anger, since he fell to the ground and found The Avengers and a lot of SHIELD waiting for him there. His injuries were negligible, healing within a matter of hours, but the other damage he’d done…he wasn’t sure what was worse—Bruce’s sad sighs, Thor’s look of worried concern, Natasha’s unreadable face or Clint’s jerky movements and tightly controlled expression. Or Tony’s terrific lecture on unnecessary personal endangerment followed by the beginning of the “we’re concerned about you” talk, which Steve had simply walked out on. Like Tony had any right to tell him about unnecessary personal endangerment.

And now they’d sent Sophia after him. He found that distinctly unfair. He felt her eyes on him.

“If it were anyone else, up here, sitting on the edge of a hundred story building after acting erratically, drinking like they have a grudge against the universe…would you leave them alone?”

He turned to her, startled, as if realizing for the first time what he—this—must look like.

“Sophia, this isn’t…I’m not going to jump off the Tower. Really. I just wanted...space.”

She nodded and came up to lean on the wall as he turned back to face the horizon.

“Tony told me what happened,” she said. “I’m not gonna say it’s not like you, because we all know full well you’ve got a streak of obstinate daredevil in you, but…you have a team for a reason you know. Like, say, for back-up.”

“It wasn’t worth bothering them. I handled it.”

She spun to face him. He glanced at her sideways and realized with a numb little shock she was furious.

“Bullshit. You nearly _died_. Because your stubborn ass wouldn’t call for help. Because you—“

“I didn’t want them hurt.”

She stared at him.

“Steve, you do realize that’s a weird thing to say, right? You guys are a team of honest to god superheroes, you deal with this stuff all the time. It’s your job. I’m pretty sure they can handle themselves.”

“It’s not…it wasn’t Avengers business. It wasn’t a cyborg squid, it wasn’t aliens, it wasn’t some megalomaniac—it wasn’t the world’s problem. It was my fight. My enemy. My problem.”

“You know, for how much Tony bitches about you and your team building fixation, I’d expected you to be more co-operation oriented. I know you yelled at him about not calling anyone besides Rhodey over the whole Mandarin thing…How is it that you get to pull this one on your own and not expect anyone to call bullshit?”

“That’s not...I just…” He turned to her, trying to keep a reign on his temper, which, given all the Asgardian liquor he’d drank, was pretty hard. “Look, the last time I went after this guy…didn’t go so great for everyone involved. I just wanted to avoid repeating that whole situation.”

“So you go haring off after a mad scientist with an army of androids all by yourself? Because you’re afraid one of your superhero-slash-trained-assassin-slash-god-slash-indestructible-rage-monster teammates might get a little bruised?”

“Because they might’ve died!” he yelled, his temper finally snapping. “Because I would’ve gotten them killed! Because the last time I went after Zola I lost Bucky!”

He turned away again, not able to bear the look of comprehension dawning on her face, and the inevitable look of lost pity everyone got when he reminded them that everyone he ever knew was dead. But for some reason, blame the magic booze, or the remnants of adrenaline, or even that there was a perverse sort of relief in airing it out, he found himself unable to stop talking, telling her about the train, the fight, the sickening feeling as he watched his friend, his brother, his only real family, drop away into the whiteness far below.

“And you know what the worst part is, about yesterday? When I finally collared Zola after the crash, he made some smart ass remark about always meeting in the fall, and I realized that it was the same time as the last time, almost to the day. Almost to the day that we went after him on that damn train and Bucky…and I hadn’t even remembered.”

Sophie said nothing for a long moment. Eventually, Steve heard her pick up the bottle next to him.

“Give me your glass,” she said, quietly. He turned around to face her, planting his feet on the gravel, but she read the obstinacy in his expression and cut him off before he could begin to argue.

“C’mon, Steve, if you think I’m letting you drink the memory of your best friend alone, you don’t know me at all. Give me your glass.”

Wordlessly, he held it out and she refilled it, but instead of taking it she looked into his face and clinked the bottle against it.

“To Sergeant James Barnes,” she said. “I wish I had met you.”

She lifted the bottle to her lips and Steve knocked back two fingers of his own glass. They regarded each other for a moment.

“I don’t,” Steve said at last. “Wish he had met you, I mean. He would’ve tried to steal you away.”

Sophie snorted and Steve started to grin, which made her laugh more and then they were both giggling like drunken fools and collapsing on the ground, the tension Steve had been carrying all day breaking in the knowledge that he wasn’t actually alone. She leaned against him and he wrapped an arm around her.

“Tell me about him,” she said. And he did.

He told her, in between drinks, about Jimmy, the troublemaking little shit, about teenage Bucky, heartbreaker in training, about Sergeant James Barnes, who was, despite his former selves, a good man. He told her about how Bucky managed to be overprotective but still somehow never treated him as less than. He told her how Bucky told him to apply for the fine arts program, sat with him through asthma attacks, gave him a place to stay after his mother died, set him up on awful, awkward dates, never let him finish a fight, and was always—always—there. Until the day he wasn’t.

“And I forgot,” said Steve. “This year. I can’t believe…It was my fault he died anyway, the least I could do is remember the damn day he died because I had to play hero. No one else will. No one else remembers…anything. No one else is left.”

Steve took another drink, because despite the family he had now—and they were a family, whether or not any of them wanted to admit it—the knowledge that everyone he ever cared about before a few years ago is dead was just too much to deal with sober. Or slightly drunk. Or at all.

“Steve. Look. Listen.” Sophie stopped, apparently trying to marshal her thoughts through the golden haze that was god booze. Steve wondered briefly if this stuff was even safe for normal humans to drink.

“Steve,” she said again. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He stared at his hands cradling the glass, and wondered if anyone would ever stop telling him that.

“I know you don’t believe that,” she continued. “You never will. You’ll blame yourself until the day you die, probably. But that doesn’t make it any less true. It wasn’t your fault. It was a war. And beating yourself up for starting to move on, for beginning a life and looking forward isn’t doing anyone any favors, especially not Bucky.

“You’ll never forget him. It will never stop hurting. But seriously, you think he died that day so you could mope on a roof and pull idiotic solo revenge missions? He chose to follow you because you’re a damn good leader, and he knew the risks when he signed on, but I don’t believe putting yourself in unnecessary danger is the best way to honor his memory.”

She reached out to touch his face, turn him toward her.

“I will come up here with you every year and drink to him if you want me to, but you will allow him the honor and the dignity of his choice. And you will move on. He would want you to move on.”

Steve stared at her.

“You…you sound like Peggy. You sound exactly like Peggy.” He started to laugh but somehow it got stuck and turned to tears instead, and then he was crying in the city lights, crying for everything he’d lost, everyone he’d never see again. She pulled him to her and held him as he sobbed like a child.

Eventually his tears slowed and he pulled back a little, scrubbing his face with his sleeve, looking embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he said. “Bet you never thought you’d see Captain America crying.”

She bumped his shoulder.

“Naaahh. That wasn’t Captain America crying. Captain America cries only the manliest of tears that taste like freedom and patriotism and probably cure cancer or something.”

Steve snorted.

“That was just a man who’s lost a lot, who’s finally letting himself grieve for it,” she continued.  “And frankly, I haven’t seen Captain America do much of anything, and I’m not sure I like him much.”

He gave her the trademarked “I’ll just sit here until what you just said makes sense” look he perfected to use on Clint.

“Steve Rogers now…him I like. He’s human. He’s kinda overprotective, and he broods sometimes, and he makes bad decisions about his personal welfare, but I like him anyway. Even when he gets drunk and cries on me.”

He smiled at her, crookedly, tears still clinging to his eyelashes until she smoothed them away.

“You’re allowed to have feelings,” she said, still cupping his face. “You’re human, you can feel loss and cry real tears and no one will think less of you for it, least of all us. Least of all me. You’ve seen the absolute worst of what I have to offer and helped me with it, at least let me do the same for you. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said.

“Good. And now we should get off the roof before we pass out here, because I’m pretty sure I would freeze to death. We will go to my apartment and I will make us chamomile tea and we will drink at least a gallon of water each before we go to sleep because let me tell you, dear boy, tomorrow’s hangover is going to be epic.”

They helped each other up and stumbled toward the door, managing to figure out the elevator and bickering about whether they should finish the bottle or save it for later, before Steve decided sitting down was a better option and slid slowly to the floor.

The elevator slid open a few floors down, making Sophie frown in confusion before she realized Tony was peering down at them. Beyond him she could make out the rest of the team, hanging back slightly as if not wishing to overwhelm them.

“Everything alright?” Tony asked.

“Fine,” said Sophie. “We talked.”

“And drank,” added Steve unnecessarily, sloshing the bottle at them from his recumbent position. Sophie thought she saw a grin spread across Thor’s face.

“Tony, I…” Steve trailed off, feeling like he owed him—them—some sort of explanation, but words were hard. Tony shook his head.

“It’s fine, Cap. Later.”

Steve shook his head more vehemently than Tony and immediately regretted it.

“This week, Bucky’s been dead exactly seventy years,” he said, enunciating each word with the careful precision of the hopelessly inebriated. He felt, more than saw, understanding flow over his team like a collective exhale.

Tony nodded.

“Get some rest, soldier. You’ll need it. Your hangover’s gonna suck.”

JARVIS slid the doors shut and took them smoothly down to Sophie’s floor, where she made good on her promise of chamomile tea and forced Steve to drink an entire gallon of water, while explaining to him why it was necessary and also how she managed to be about six times more competent while drunk than he was, which essentially boiled down to practice. She managed to get him to the bed, where he collapsed into an incoherent but grateful puddle and almost immediately began to snore.

She woke once in the night, because he was making the small noise of an animal lonely and lost from its pack, and as she reached out to hold as much of him as she was able, he turned to her and clung on fiercely, as if she was the only thing keeping him anchored in the now, as if she was worth keeping and worth staying for, and she stroked his hair and wiped the tears from  his still sleeping cheeks and thought that maybe—just maybe—she could be as good for him as he was for her.

* * *

 

Sophie was right. Steve’s hangover the next day was truly epic. He spent a good two hours making the best of friends with the toilet until the serum caught up enough with whatever in all nine realms was in that liquor, a time made infinitely worse by Thor’s cheerful need to check up on them at nine in the morning, bearing some horribly greasy food, of which the smell alone tacked on another thirty minutes of toilet bonding.

 

But, as he caught Sophie’s eye and she gave him a wry smile, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. They were somehow, systematically if not entirely on purpose, destroying all the walls between them, and for the first time he realized maybe the walls he felt weren’t all hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was stupidly hard to write, because everyone is always like “Oh, Cap, you should start to move on, it’s ok to move on, Bucky would want you to live your life” and the whole time we know that Bucky is actually out there brainwashed and bitter and hurting and I JUST HAVE A LOT OF WINTER SOLDIER ARC FEELINGS OK?!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In celebration of my birthday earlier this week, I give you plot!

The next few weeks happened without incident—any incident, which was, Steve thought, quite strange. Avengers Tower started gearing up for Thanksgiving, which had begun as a waifs and strays operation for the members of the team who had no one but the team (i.e. pretty much all of them) but then Sophie and Pepper had gotten wind of it and now attendance was at least tripled.

Steve marveled how Sophie could still maintain she was not a party person when she could in a matter of hours turn a five person dinner into something requiring multiple cases of champagne and two thirty pound turkeys (Steve could barely wrap his head around the idea of one thirty pound turkey anyway).

He watched from the couch as she simultaneously made popcorn, discussed pie options with Tony, and tried to pin down an answer from Thor about whether Fandral was coming with Jane & Co. (apparently he was hanging around an awful lot these days. Steve wondered if he should give the Asgardian the “hurt-her-and-we’ll-end-you” talk, and then had to speculate on how one might sufficiently threaten someone who was basically immortal).

He turned away from watching Sophie’s effortless takeover of Thanksgiving to cast his vote on the movie of the night, Spirited Away holding a narrow margin over Kiki’s Delivery Service (they’d been on a Studio Ghibli kick lately). Clint had commandeered the remote in the meantime and was cycling endlessly through the news channels. There was a crash from the kitchen, but knowing Thor was in it, Steve didn’t think much of that until Clint looked over and tensed.

He sat up and turned to look, expecting some popcorn related disaster, but instead saw Sophie lash out at Tony as he reached for her, raking her nails down his cheek. He staggered back and Sophie pressed herself up against the wall, her eyes flicking from Tony to Thor, her breathing short and fast.

And that look. He knew that look. Shit.

Clint vaulted over the back of the couch and Sophie’s eyes shot to him. Thor took advantage of this distraction to shift position, box her in, and her attention snapped back to him. She tensed even more, preparing to…run? Fight?

Steve’s hand shot out and grabbed Clint’s wrist, holding him in place.

“Stop.” His voice was calm, but it carried. Both Tony and Thor shot him a look.

“Back off,” he said. Tony opened his mouth to protest. “Back. Off.” said Steve. It was less of an order and more of a statement of how the world would be. They backed off. Sophie relaxed infinitesimally.

“Right. Nobody move.”

Steve slowly got up off the couch, watching Sophie carefully. She focused on him, the one source of movement. He walked toward her, going round the opposite side of the counter to give her space, keep an exit available so she wouldn’t feel trapped.

He stopped a few feet away from her and just stood there, hands in his pockets, everything about his body language screaming I am not a threat, and hoped like hell he was reading any of this right. His mind played echoes of past conversations, snippets of memory—

\--reacts to being attacked and to fear—

\--when I feel threatened—

\--something different, something new--

\--four people…And you—

 

“Hey sweetheart,” he said, softly. “Something scare you?”

She stared at him, her face blank, but she made no move.

“It’s okay,” he said, his eyes on hers. “No one’s gonna hurt you. No one will touch you. It’s okay. I promise.”

There. A flicker in her eyes, a minute slowing of her breath, a tiny but hopeful indication she had some awareness, some understanding. He kept talking, the way you talk to frightened and injured animals, creating a soothing unbroken sound that fills their world, and watched that little flicker and hoped.

“You want to go somewhere safe, sweetheart? I know there’s a lot of people in here, I know it makes you nervous because you can’t see them all, I know, it’s scary. But you can leave. It’s okay. We can go somewhere safe. Just us.”

Slowly, slowly, he took a hand from his pocket and held it out to her.

“Come on, it’s okay.”

She stared at his outstretched hand and he thought for heartstopping moment he had pushed too far, asked too much, but her eyes flashed up to his and there was…something.

“It’s okay,” he said again.

Her eyes dropped to his hand again and in a movement so fast he barely registered it, she seized it. And then she was pulling him out of the kitchen and toward the never-used stairs. She led him down a few floors, freezing at any small noise, nearly jumping out of her skin at a door slamming somewhere far below them. He took his cues from her, and tried to be a sure and solid presence in the face of her obvious fear. She slipped into a darkened hallway he didn’t recognize until they stopped at a door.

His door.

Her free hand whispered across the surface, the bio-lock releasing with a small click. She dropped his hand and slid through, heading straight for his bedroom, the furthest room away from the entrance. He followed at a small distance, not wanting to upset her by blocking the way to the exit.

Once inside, she dragged a small armchair to the far corner, where she would have a direct line of sight to the door. She curled up in it and stared fixedly at the door. Somehow, the whole thing reminded him of Natasha. A thought struck him.

He grabbed his desk chair and set it at the mouth of the short hallway leading from the door into his room. He sat down, angling the chair so that he could see both Sophie, across the room, and the door. If anyone wanted to get to her, they’d have to go through him, and he’d yet to meet someone who could do that.

He glanced over at her. She hadn’t moved, but she looked marginally more relaxed, as if she no longer thought the world was immediately trying to kill her. Steve counted that as a victory.

They spent the remainder of the night like that, Sophie staring at the door, Steve watching Sophie and turning himself into an impenetrable wall between her and the rest of creation. The sounds of the city continued far below them, taxi horns and sirens and rumbling engines melding together. Stars fell and the sky lightened and Sophie somehow, slowly, drifted into sleep. And Steve sat, and made himself into somewhere safe.

* * *

 

A small noise reached Steve’s ears and his eyes snapped open. He focused on Sophie, across the room, as she blinked in the morning sun and sat forward stiffly.

“Why do I always pick the most uncomfortable places to pass out?” she muttered. “I mean, there’s a bed right there.”

Consciousness to smart-assery in under five seconds. Steve almost laughed out loud with relief.

“You wanted to watch the door,” he said. She cracked her neck and rolled her eyes.

“It seemed reasonable at the time. Don’t ask me why.”

“You know, to the most of us, curling up in a chair in a corner and watching the only entrance all night is perfectly reasonable. Only we would have guns. And possibly grenades.”

She snorted. “You superheroes are a weird bunch.” She yawned and then pulled a face. “My mouth tastes like something died in it.”

“You know where your toothbrush is,” said Steve, standing up. “And your meds. I’ll make some tea.”

Steve puttered about in the kitchen, making toast and herbal tea because caffeine after a panic attack seemed like a bad idea, and tried to focus on the normalcy of the morning and not the peculiarity of the last night. He was doing well at that, he thought, until Sophie came out of the bathroom and said with studied casualness “So I had a panic attack last night, right?”

“Yes?” he said.

“The whole thing, with the violence and the not talking and the freaking out whenever anyone got near me, right?”

Steve looked at her, his brow wrinkling in confusion. “Yeah…”

“See, that’s what I thought, except when I was washing my hands just now to get the blood out from under my nails and I thought ‘Wow, I should really go apologize to Tony because that must’ve hurt and he’s so damn vain about his stupid face’ and then I realized that I remember what happened last night, which is weird because I don’t ever remember what happens after I’m gone, because I’m, y’know, gone.”

Her tone was nonchalant but Steve knew her better than that. He slid a mug to her and she grabbed it as if she held it tight enough her hands would stop shaking.

“Wouldn’t that be a good thing, though?” he said, after she’d taken a long swallow of tea and set the cup down. “Being able to remember?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “On the one hand, no more massive memory gaps might be nice, but on the other I hit my favorite family member in the face hard enough to draw blood last night and now I actually have to live with that memory. And I know for a fact that that’s not the worst thing I’ve done, and if I start knowing what I do when I’m…out…”

Sometimes, Steve forgot what life was like for normal people, for people who weren’t soldiers, or superheroes, or didn’t get into fistfights on average three times a week. For people who had never been in a war, people who had never killed someone. People like Sophie, or at least the person Sophie tried to be. Punching Tony in the face, punching every member of his team in the face, was pretty much a weekly occurrence for Steve, even if he did have to pull his punches with everyone but Thor. But for Sophie…

She had trailed off, and Steve realized he hadn’t a clue what to say to make her feel better.

“So you remember what happened last night?” he said, at last, hoping the slight change of subject would distract her. He didn’t like the look on her face, and he liked even less the fact he didn’t know what to do about it.

“I…think so,” she said. “I remember when we got here, and staring at the door. I remember you talking. I remember hitting Tony, apparently.”

Her eyes were closed, walking backwards through her memories.

“Do you remember what…set you off?” asked Steve. From what he knew, her panic attacks had a definite trigger—a touch, a reminder, an attempted kidnapping. But last night didn’t make any sense to him, unless she’d suddenly developed a phobia of popcorn. Her forehead creased.

“I was making snacks. Tony was being an ass about the pie. I remember looking over to Clint to get back-up about how rhubarb pie is disgusting.”

Her eyes slammed open, staring past him at some internal horror.

“The news. The man. On tv. He. Oh god.” Her words were sharp staccato bursts of fear and Steve thought for a moment he would have to talk her down from another panic attack.

“Sophia.”

She met his eyes, hers wide and not really seeing him, but when he touched her hand her fingers twined around his tight enough to hurt. He gently pulled her into his arms, his breathing slow and steady, as if he could calm her down by example. She relaxed, slowly, the tension leaving her body.

“I recognized him,” she said after a few minutes.

“I figured,” said Steve.

“No,” she said. “You don’t get it. I recognized him from the kidnapping.”

 

Steve didn’t move, just kept her encircled softly in his arms, just kept breathing slowly, and wondered vaguely why she didn’t notice that he had turned to ice.

* * *

 

Two hours, two pots of chamomile tea and one more dose of anti-anxiety meds later, Sophie was standing behind the couch in the common area while Steve brought the rest of the team up to speed. Or tried to. Sometimes, trying to debrief the Avengers was like herding hyperintelligent overcaffeinated kittens with ADHD.

“So you remember what happened last night?” demanded Tony, cutting Steve off in the middle of a sentence.

“Mostly,” said Sophie. “Um. Sorry about your face.”

Tony had three long scratches down one cheek, but he waved Sophie’s apology away.

“It’s fine. I’m telling everyone I had a night of passion with Catwoman.”

Clint snorted. “Bet Pepper loves that.”

Tony waggled his eyebrows. “How do you know she wasn’t there?”

 “Hmm,” said Bruce, his face taking on a look of scientific speculation. “I wonder if you remember because the violence of your reaction was minimized, or because the nature of the condition is changing.”

“I don’t know,” said Sophie tersely. “Feel like triggering another panic attack so you can find out?”

“Actually, an episode in a carefully controlled environment may actually give us valuable insight into—“ he broke off as he noticed everyone staring at him incredulously. “I’m not suggesting we do that, I’m just saying it might be useful from a data gathering standpoint. The more we know the better chance we can do something useful.”

“Anyway,” said Sophie, “seeing as you all decided to take on the mystery of my previous adventures, I figured you might want in on this lead. Or whatever you’re calling it these days.”

“Well, the fact you now remember things is intriguing,” started Bruce.

“But it’s hardly a lead that justifies me being awake at eight in the morning,” finished Clint, his arms crossed.

“If you would just let us finish a damn sentence,” said Steve. He’d missed his morning run, and his workout, and he hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours and he was feeling very put upon.

“Ooo, Cap said a naughty word,” said Tony. “You owe the swear jar a quarter.”

“Stark, you owe the swear jar five hundred dollars,” said Natasha.

“Hey, you and Thor owe the swear jar at least as much as I do, don’t think swearing in a different language doesn’t count.”

“Asgard has no forbidden words, Man of Iron, just because Midgardians find references to copulation taboo—“

“Oh for Chrissakes, shut up about the fucking swear jar!” Sophie’s voice was a whipcrack over the bickering. “You know why we dragged you here at this apparently ungodly hour? Because I remember last night, and I remember what set me off this time, and it’s because I saw one of my kidnappers on the news last night.”

The room went still and everyone turned to stare at her. She smiled without humor, an awful thing to see on a face designed for laughter.

“JARVIS, please bring up what Clint was watching last night.”

The tv came on, flicking through the last night’s news, everyone slowly turning toward it. The tv finally settled, a series of shots of a war torn city overlaid by a brisk female voice with a British accent.

“Bombings in the Middle East continue, but the violence in Kandahar is mostly pacified. United States troops have mostly withdrawn by now, but private security contracted by the United States remain to oversee the transition—“

The video began to show shots of serious looking men, heavily armed and kevlared, and more serious looking men in suits and sunglasses that managed to look even more intimidating. One suited man turned his face towards the camera and Sophie said “Freeze.”

Steve shot her a look. Her arms were crossed, the fingers of her right hand digging into her left bicep so hard the flesh turned white.

“Him,” she said, somewhat unnecessarily.

“Mercenaries,” said Tony. Steve had heard him sound less disgusted talking about Justin Hammer, or hipsters who used typewriters, or gum he’d stepped in.

Steve turned back to the screen. The man was in the act of ascending some stairs, one foot now frozen in the air, and the ludicrousness of the position almost made Steve want to laugh. He felt sick. One of the men he’d sworn to find and bring down stared out at him, halfway across the world and just out of reach. He could only imagine how Sophie felt. He glanced at her again, gauging her reaction, and the look on her face froze his bones.

No. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how Sophie felt.

“JARVIS, run facial recognition. Find me a name so I know who I’m going to send to hell,” said Tony.

“Not necessary,” said Natasha from her chair in the corner. Tony whirled around to face her. Sophie repeated the motion, but slowed down, as if the air was somehow heavier for her.

“You know who he is,” Tony said, flat, accusing.

“That’s classified,” said Clint, but it seemed to be an automatic reflex more than anything. He and Natasha stared at each other for a moment in that wordless communication everyone found creepy. By the set of Natasha’s jaw and the narrowing of Clint’s eyes, they seemed to be arguing. Clint’s mouth quirked and he looked down. Natasha nodded once, sharply, acknowledging her victory.

“SHIELD knows him as Jasper Abbitelli. He is a mercenary, yes, but he’s also the lieutenant of a dirty arms dealer we’ve been after for quite some time. That’s who we were after when we found Sophie.”

“You knew? All this time, you knew who was behind the kidnapping and you didn’t fucking tell us?” Tony’s voice rose in anger, vibrating with rage.

“No,” said Clint. “We didn’t. We had a half of a whisper and a blind hope. And when we got there we found nothing but some half-assed goons and a terrified college girl. Nothing to connect Abbitelli or his boss to any of it. We thought we were wrong. Until now.”

Tony opened his mouth, no doubt to berate them some more.

“Shut up,” said Sophie, quietly. She was back to staring at the screen, and Tony took one look at her and subsided. “He has a boss?” she asked.

“Yeah,” said Clint. “And if we know basically nothing about Abbitelli, we know less than nothing about his boss. Just a name. But if Abbitelli was involved in your kidnapping, you can bet he wasn’t pulling the strings. He’s a dog, he follows orders.”

“Name,” said Sophie. Clint’s jaw worked, as if fighting some internal battle. Sophie turned to him, face blank, eyes glittering.

“Name.”

“Absalom,” said Natasha. Sophie mouthed it silently, as if seeing how it tasted on her tongue.

Absalom.

She didn’t look like it tasted good.

Steve went back to staring at the tv, trying to get the measure of the man he was going to kill.

No, not kill. Bring to justice. Really. Honest.

(Steve wondered who he thought he was fooling, because it sure as hell wasn’t himself.)

Brown hair. Olive skin. Shortish but well-muscled, with an air of quiet, competent authority that somehow reminded him of Phil, if Phil was an evil son of a bitch.

Steve frowned.

“JARVIS, can you enlarge, please?”

The AI obligingly zoomed in, and Steve sucked in a breath. There, in the set of the shoulders, the tilt of his head.

“How long ago was this footage taken?”

“Based on the state of the surrounding buildings compared to dateable footage of the same area, some time between yesterday and two weeks ago,” said JARVIS. “I regret that I cannot ascertain a more exact time, but I can continue to narrow the range—“

“It’s fine, JARVIS, that’s all I needed to know. Tony?” continued Steve, not turning his head. “Is there anything you know of that brings someone back from the dead?”

“What?”

“This man. Abbitelli. He was the guy in my apartment back in April. And he was dead. Pretty sure he was dead.”

Tony threw up his hands.

“Great. We find out my cousin was kidnapped by a shadowy arms dealing supervillain and experimented on, and now we find out said shadowy supervillain has zombie henchmen. This is exactly what I want to deal with at eight-thirty in the morning on two hours of sleep and not enough coffee.”

“Tony.”

“Yes, yes, probably not actual zombies. But I don’t know. Extremis, but there was a lack of glowing. Insane healing factors? That seems to be popular with the Absalom crowd, going by Sophie. Abbitelli’s a mutant? Poison that only makes you mostly dead? I don’t know. I’ll look into it.”

Tony looked around at everyone.

“So team. What’s our next move? Cap?”

“We have a face, a name, and a location no more than two weeks old. We track him down and get him to talk. And then we hit things.”

“A good plan,” said Thor. Steve realized Thor hadn’t said a word since the serious conversation began and looked over at him. Steve knew that, like most of them, Thor had a serious problem with injustice and the innocent being hurt, but Thor had a very specifically serious problem with people who hurt women. Steve thought there was a story there, but never asked about it. The only word Steve could think of for Thor’s face right now was thunderous.

“Right,” said Steve. “Natasha, Clint, you’re spies, go spy. Bruce, if you could help Tony look into ways to cheat death that involve foaming at the mouth and twitching, that would be great.”

Tony flicked his fingers in a mocking salute and left. Bruce followed close behind after shooting Sophie a small smile full of sadness and understanding. Natasha and Clint exchanged another long look and Clint sighed and held up his hands in defeat.

“Fine,” he said. “But I’m not wearing the chador this time,” he hollered over his shoulder as he left. Natasha paused on the way out the door to lay a hand on Sophie’s arm and say something too quiet for even Steve to hear.

“I notice you do not assign me a task, Captain,” said Thor. Steve gave him a tired smile.

“There’s not much either of us can do at this point, really.”

“Aye,” Thor nodded. “The curse of being the tanks, as Hawkeye would say.”

Steve cursed Clint for the umpteenth time for introducing Thor to the world of online gaming.

“I could use a sparring partner in a few hours, if you feel like hitting something,” Steve offered. God knows he felt like hitting something. Thor’s face cracked into a grin.

“It would be my honor.”

“Great. I’ll see you in the gym around one.”

Thor turned to leave, and then turned back.

“Lady Sophia.”

Sophie’s head swung slowly around to look at up at him.

“We will find this man. And his master. And we will bring them to a fitting end.”

Sophie’s jaw spasmed. “Good. Make sure you do it somewhere where I can watch. You can do what you want with the rest of them, but those two…Make sure it’s somewhere I can watch.”

Thor regarded her for a moment with calm blue eyes and then nodded and walked out, leaving Steve and Sophie alone. Sophie turned back to the tv, still frozen on a man walking up the stairs. Her fingers still dug into her skin and Steve knew there would be bruises later, and he was suddenly, violently furious at the man on the screen because he was a million miles away and he was still hurting her, still making her hurt herself.

“Why him?” he asked, more to distract himself from his thoughts before he punched a wall than anything else. Sophie glanced sideways at him.

“Why you want to watch Absalom go down, I get, but you said the rest of them we can do what we want with, except for him. Why him?”

“While I was…with them…most of the men just treated me like a chore, like a task that needed to be done. Like it was just a part of their jobs, you know? Nothing personal. Not him. No.”

Steve watched her watch the figure on the screen and knew, suddenly, what she meant, what she was about to say. Ice slipped down his spine, blooming in his stomach and curling through his veins.

“The things I told you about on New Year’s, what happened to me, the worst of it…that was him. It was always him. He ripped my life away, burned whatever was left of my innocence, made me flinch away from every touch, every look anyone gave me. He’d done it before, he told me stories of the others he’d taken and broken. He believed he broke me. And while he was doing it he smiled.”

Steve watched as the fingers pressing into her arm curled under themselves, the nails biting into her flesh, hard enough to draw blood.

“So before you cart him off to whatever prison SHIELD wants him in, or Thor smashes his head in with that hammer, or whatever else you guys decide to do to him, I am going to look him in the eyes and make him know that he did not break me.”

Her voice was passionless, controlled, her face a blank mask, but her eyes glittered like hard glass and Steve knew he must’ve seen something more terrifying than her in that moment, but damned if he could remember what.

“I am going to tear out his heart and feed it to him,” Steve heard himself say, his voice far away and echoing in his own ears. “And I will make damn sure you are watching.”

Green eyes flashed to meet his blue ones, half of a smile twisting her mouth.

“Aw, Cap, you say the sweetest things.”

An answering smile tugged reluctantly at his own lips. He raised a hand to brush her knuckles and her fingers unclenched to twine with his.

“You should get some sleep,” she said. He nodded.

“Come with me?”

Her eyes skittered over his face and darted away, her mouth opening and closing like she couldn’t find the words she wanted, but he knew what they were anyway.

“Please?” he asked. “I’ll take the couch, even, I don’t care, I just need to know that you’re there. That you’re safe.”

He didn’t know what he’d do if she refused. Sleep outside the door to her apartment, probably, and wouldn’t that be weird. But her hand tightened on his and she nodded, her eyes slipping closed for a moment. In the absence of their fierce, fevered intensity her face was pale, full of shadows and pained creases.

“Okay,” he said.

They ended up in her apartment, her curled up on her couch ostensibly with a book, saying she was too keyed up to sleep, but when Steve left to spar with Thor her eyes were closed, her face smoothed out in slumber.

He came back a few hours later, sore muscles and bruises already healing, to find her staring blankly out the window, as if someone had flipped a switch to standby. But she focused on him as he stepped into her sight, and held out her arms. He knelt down in front of her and she stroked his face with something like curiosity on hers, mapping the contours as if learning them by heart. When they came together, finally, it was more akin to a crash than an exercise in romance, an intensity bordering on violence in every touch, the marks on her skin and blood on his lips reminding them that they were there, they were alive, and they had each other.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, I'm writing this about four chapters ahead, but I just finished the big climax and sent it off to my fabulous beta, which means that I am almost done with this ridiculous thing. I just need a few chapters after that wrap it up. ACK.
> 
> So in celebration of me no longer feeling like I'm begin chased by a giant Indiana Jones style boulder made of plot, you get TWO chapters today.
> 
> These two chapters happened because I realized that this story STILL hadn't passed the Bechdel test, and then it rather...got away from me. 
> 
> If my chapters had titles, this one would be called Girl's Night Out.

Thanksgiving ended up being a slightly subdued affair, with Clint and Natasha still gone, or at least as subdued as anything with Thor and Darcy could be. But everyone knew the real reason for Thanksgiving was eating turkey-cranberry-mashed-potato sandwiches at three in the morning for the next week, so no one really minded.

Bruce and Tony hit a snag in the cheating death investigation, not because it was impossible, but because there were literally hundreds of possibilities and without more information it was impossible to narrow it down.

Natasha and Clint came home in time to catch the last of the leftovers, wearing identical looks of disgust at both their lack of success and Tony’s habit of using strawberry preserves in his sandwiches when the cranberry ran out.

The search didn’t stall, exactly, not with the spies sending out feelers and JARVIS scanning every piece of footage, every report, that could even be considered tangentially related, but there wasn’t a lot to do other than wait and look and chase half formed rumors and distant shadows. And hope.

Steve’s rage still sat heavy and thrumming in his stomach, but it was a glacial anger—slow moving, patient and unstoppable.

Life proceeded around the search, and the day to day wasn’t actually that bad, even if everyone was unsettlingly grateful for Doombot attacks or overgrown jellyfish or whatever because it meant they had something to punch.

Everyone—save Steve, who knew better—kept a watchful eye on Sophie for a few days until she caught on and swore a streak blue enough to turn even Tony’s ears red. Steve just shook his head and laughed. He never expected that a naked desire for revenge spoken in an expressionless voice would be an indicator of progress towards mental health, but somehow it was. Somehow, Sophie seemed less fragile, her grasp on herself less tenuous, as if coming across proof of one of her demons in the real world made it easier to deal with the rest. When he observed as much to Natasha, she looked at him with one perfect eyebrow cocked, as if she was simultaneously disappointed and unsurprised at his slowness.

“You know, when we found her, there was no one left she recognized, no one there responsible for anything that was done to her. There was no evidence for anything she remembered happening, physical or psychological. Most of her injuries she got fighting us while we tried to get her out. She knew horrible things had happened, but there was no proof. Several people, including her own family, believed she was exaggerating, that a flighty club girl like her must be prone to hysterics.”

Natasha paused, letting Steve absorb that particular bombshell and draw some inevitable conclusions. No one wonder Sophie felt like she was crazy.

“Not you, though,” said Steve, after a moment.

“Not me,” said Natasha coolly. “Chalk it up to personal experience.”

Natasha never talked about her past, but Steve had read her file, so he just nodded and then went to find Sophie.

“You’re not crazy and I will always believe you,” he said without preamble, holding her tightly. She pulled back, brows drawn together in amused confusion.

“Um, okay,” she said, the hint of a laugh in her voice. “You all right there?”

“I mean it,” he said, radiating serious earnestness as only Captain America could.

She stared at him, head quirked. “I know.”

He breathed out a sigh. “Good.”

 

That Friday, over coffee, he asked if she wanted to go see a movie. The annual Christmas insanity was about to begin, and he wanted to grab one evening with her while he still could. But he could see she was about to say no and finished with “But if you don’t feel up for it, that’s fine, we can have a quiet night in and—“

“Actually, Tash’s organized a bit of a girl’s night tonight.”

“A girl’s night?”

“Yes, Steve. Occasionally women like to get together without their menfolk.”

“Yeah, but…Natasha?”

Sophie looked amused at Steve’s dumbfounded expression. “Tash is in fact female. You must’ve noticed.”

“Yeah, but…Natasha?”

Sophie shrugged. “She likes Darcy, and Darcy hasn’t seen much of the city and can apparently outdrink an elephant, and Tasha knows where all the good bars are, so she thought we could show Darcy around while she’s still here. And then Darcy said Jane would have to come because that woman is apparently as much of a workaholic as Tony, only without the party gene, and then Pepper got wind of it, and let’s face it, the Tower is kind of a boy’s club and there’s only so much we can take without needing a night away from you frat boys.”

Steve sputtered. “Frat boys? I am not a frat boy.”

Sophie raised an eyebrow. “The other day I walked in on you and Clint having a marshmallow gun fight. You’re right, you’re not frat boys, you’re eight year olds.”

Steve opened his mouth to protest, and then shut it again, because the marshmallow fight had devolved into an undignified scuffle and Sophie kind of had a point.

“I’ll give you that one,” he said. “You have fun tonight.”

She grinned at him. “What, no Captain America lecture on the evils of drink?”

“After October? Don’t drink alone on the edge of a building, it scares your friends. And drink plenty of water.”

Sophie chuckled into her Earl Grey and Steve wondered if he would ever stop feeling proud every time he made her laugh.

* * *

 

“You never dress like this for me!”

Pepper snorted at Tony’s complaint as she walked into the common area.

“Sweetie, the last time I dressed like this for you, you didn’t even notice and then made me hold some machinery guts that leaked oil all over a thousand dollar dress.”

Sophie leaned over the back of the couch to rest her chin on Steve’s shoulder.

“I’m glad your hobbies are significantly less messy or likely to explode,” she said.

“And here I was about to take up the art of pyrotechnics,” said Steve, mock disappointment filling his voice. Sophie side-eyed him, red lips pursing in disapproval.

“No.”

“Aw, c’mon darlin’, let me light up your world.”

She buried her head in his shoulder with a groan. “God, you just get worse and worse.”

Steve turned his head from the chess game he was playing with Thor and cast an appreciative eye over her bent frame. “And you just get better and better.”

She groaned again and swatted at him. She and Darcy were both dressed like they walked out of a Gil Elvgren calendar, and Steve, who had been mildly baffled by what he considered the return of the flapper silhouette, greatly appreciated that there were still some women who embraced their curves.

Not that Pepper didn’t look great either. Even Jane had relinquished her jeans and t-shirts for the night, although to hear Darcy tell it, it had been an epic battle.

“I still object to you going out dressed like that unchaperoned. Where are you going anyway, and why can’t I come?” Tony demanded.

“Girl’s night. Here is where I would say, ‘Remember? I told you yesterday,’ if I didn’t know that was a pointless sentence.” Pepper said, checking her lipstick in the mirror by the door. “And I don’t know, Natasha picked.”

 “Natasha? The Black Widow is having a girl’s night?” Tony’s eyes widened in exaggerated shock.

“Yes, dear.”

“But she kills people. With her thighs.”

“I kill people in a lot of ways, Stark,” said a low voice from the doorway. “And for a variety of different reasons.”

Steve knew the way Tony’s eyes went from wide with exaggeration to wide with true fear was something he would treasure forever and take out on rainy days when he needed a laugh. Judging from Clint’s muffled laughter he wasn’t alone in that.

“You ready to go, ladies? All that killing people with my thighs today made me thirsty.”

The women made their escape, Pepper hollering over her shoulder “Try not to blow up the Tower, boys.”

The elevator dinged shut and Tony stared after it, pouting.

“I may blow up the Tower out of spite. I can’t believe I’ve been abandoned for booze and an assassin.”

Steve claimed a rook and then swore as Thor moved his bishop over four, crossed his arms and grinned.

“Checkmate,” he rumbled. Steve stared at the board, shaking his head.

“You know, you’re the only person who’s beaten me at chess on a regular basis since high school.”

Tony flopped on the couch next to Steve.

“That’s not a checkmate.”

“Six moves from now it is,” said Bruce, glancing at the board. “Am I still playing winner?”

Tony looked at the three of them incredulously.

“My girlfriend just ditched me in favor of my human lab rat of a cousin and the deadliest assassin in the world and my building has turned into Superhero Chess Club. I’m going to have my cool kid card revoked.”

“Games of strategy are not ‘cool’ in Midgard?”

“No, Greased Lightning, chess is not cool. Chess is what’s played by skinny little asthmatics who can’t go outside for recess.”

Steve couldn’t decide whether or not to take that personally. On the one hand, Tony probably didn’t mean it personally, and on the other, Tony was an insensitive jerk.

“What games do the ‘cool kids’ play, if not games of intelligence?”

Steve felt a deep sense of foreboding, Clint buried his head in hands with a muttered “Oh no,” and Tony’s face split into a truly evil grin.

* * *

 

Natasha lined up the shot glasses and filled them with a level of expertise only seen in career bartenders and showy alcoholics. Darcy grabbed hers and knocked it back after an exuberant “Slainte!”

“You’re not even Irish,” said Jane, shaking her head.

“I could be,” Darcy shot back. “You don’t know.”

Pepper drained her glass and immediately held it out to Natasha for a refill.

“That bad, huh?” the spy said as she poured.

“You know, I thought when I became Tony’s CEO and then girlfriend, I would maybe be able to forgo being his calendar keeper. You know he double booked himself again? He’s supposed to be in Japan and Dubai at the same time next week.”

“Ah ah ah,” scolded Darcy. “Nope. Rule one of girl’s night with Darcy: the evening has to pass the Bechdel test. No talking about boyfriends. We are so much more than our relationships, ladies, and this is not going to turn into the Girlfriends of Superheroes Support Group. Even if we are all girlfriends of superheroes.”

“Excuse me?” said Natasha, raising an eyebrow. Pepper winced in anticipation of a flaying.

“If this is going to a Girlfriends of Superheroes Support Group, I’m pretty sure we need to kick Tasha out and go back for Hawkeye,” snickered Sophie. The corner of Natasha’s mouth twitched up almost imperceptibly.

“And Phil,” she added, which sent Sophie and Pepper into a gale of laughter. Phil’s awkward fan boy-ing around Steve still hadn’t gotten any better.

“God, I don’t even know what to talk about that’s not Tony related,” said Pepper, wiping her eyes. “That’s kind of sad, actually.”

“Anything else. Art. Music. Food. Work. Embarrassing childhood stories,” said Jane. “Or college stories, for that matter.”

“Previous sexual conquests,” said Darcy, waggling her eyebrows. “I’m willing to bend the Bechdel rules for the good stuff.”

“Who says all of our previous sexual conquests bend the Bechdel rules?” asked Natasha.

Jane choked halfway through her shot and Darcy trained wide blue eyes on the assassin.

“I do believe we have our first topic for the night, girls.”

* * *

 

 “…and then one afternoon I walked in on them screwing in the supply closet and that’s how my undergrad thesis was published,” finished Jane. “They didn’t dare turn it down after that.”

“You’re kidding,” said Pepper. “Dr. Lehmer and Professor Fujiwara? In a supply closet? I can’t…I can’t even picture that. My imagination is actually shutting down right now.”

“Be grateful,” said Jane darkly. “There are some things human eyes should not see.”

“I can’t believe you guys went to the same college,” said Darcy.

“I’m just glad I never had to write an undergrad thesis,” said Sophie. “I don’t think I had the attention span to sit down and write fifty solid pages at that point. The only reason I managed my master’s thesis is because there was literally nothing else to do, unless you like watching endless episodes of The Price is Right.”

“Dude, were you living with your gramma during grad school?” asked Darcy. “Because that’s literally the only reason I can think of for that.”

“There’s a limited number of tv shows deemed acceptable in the loony bin,” said Sophie. “And Marge from down the hall always got the remote first.”

“You worked in the loony bin?”

“No, dear sweet Darcy, I was actually in the loony bin,” said Sophie as Pepper snorted into her mai-tai.

“I liked Marge,” said Natasha. “She was good people.”

“She poisoned three husbands and only got away with the insanity defense because she was a millionaire. Mostly thanks to the three dead husbands,” said Pepper dryly. Natasha shrugged.

“She made good cookies.”

Jane stared at them. “And I thought academics were weird.”

* * *

 

 “Does the time I tased Thor count as an embarrassing work story? I mean, technically I was working.”

They were at the third or fourth bar by this point, everyone but Natasha and Jane forgoing vodka for the most ridiculously named cocktails they could find.

“You tased Thor?” Natasha looked at close to shocked as Sophie had ever seen her. Darcy shrugged, her assumed nonchalance doing nothing to disguise her pride.

“We thought he was a crazy homeless dude after Jane ran him over with her car. He was acting weird.”

Natasha turned to Jane. “You ran Thor over with your car? No wonder he fell in love with you.”

Jane blushed. “It’s not like I meant to. He literally appeared out of the air. Anyway, doesn’t this break the Bechdel rules?”

“If you want embarrassing work stories that don’t break the Bechdel rules, I won’t be able to tell any of mine,” said Pepper. “Not even the one with superglue and the koala and the masseuse I know was a hooker, no matter what Tony says.”

“The only good work story I have is the time Minerva arbitrarily decided she didn’t like Ken from accounting and led him around in circles for half an hour,” said Sophie, who had heard the superglue koala hooker story from all sides except the koala’s.

“Ken from accounting deserved that,” said Natasha. Sophie narrowed her eyes.

“What did I say about turning my AI against people for your own personal amusement?”

Natasha blinked innocently. “I would never.”

“You liar. I know your contract has a supervillainy clause, do you want me to turn you in?”

“You have no proof. I never leave proof.”

“Ooo, Natasha, you must have loads of good work stories,” said Darcy, as if the fact her newest drinking buddy was a superspy just dawned on her.

“All the best ones are classified,” mourned Pepper.

“Oh, tell the one about the penguin and the twizzlers!” said Sophie. “Or Bolivia! Tell Bolivia, Tasha, Bolivia’s the best.”

“Oh no. I am not nearly drunk enough to tell Bolivia.”

“Well, you know what the cure for that is?” said Jane, turning around to catch the bartender’s eye. “More booze!”

* * *

 

 “God, I haven’t seen Natasha this drunk since after that thing in Iran that I’m not supposed to know about,” said Sophie, watching the redhead saunter towards the bathroom, nodding at various acquaintances. Bar five—or four—Sophie had lost count—was a place on Ludlow playing something that sounded like the unholy lovechild of dubstep and the polka, where the bartenders had greeted Natasha with joyful yells of “Boyka!” and yet another bottle of vodka.

“This is her drunk?” asked Jane. “How is this her drunk? How can you even tell, she’s downed two bottles of vodka by herself and she hasn’t changed a bit. And I used to think Darcy could drink.”

Sophie shrugged. “I’ve been drinking with Tash for like four years now. You learn to tell. And she was looking at shoes on her phone. She only shops online when she’s hammered. Once she came over after a mission, drank all my tequila and bought a crate of pickles off ebay.”

Pepper slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her laughter. “Pickles?”

“Yeah, like, twenty-four jars of pickles. Off the internet, delivered to my apartment, for no reason. She even paid for overnight shipping, so the first thing I woke up to the next day was an SI lackey banging on my door holding pickles and looking very confused. I came to the conclusion she was expecting some sort of pickle-ocalypse.”

“Hang on, you knew her before the whole alien/Tony Stark’s Superheroes Hostel thing?” asked Darcy, her expression of befuddlement magnified by the half-dozen stupid mixed drinks she’d consumed at the previous speakeasy-themed bar. “Was she, like, in the loony bin with you?”

“Darcy, you can’t just ask someone—“ started Jane.

“I was kidnapped,” said Sophie, surprised at how easy the words fell out. “She was on the team that rescued me.”

Darcy stared at Sophie, her mouth hanging open.

“That’s…wow,” said Jane.

“I never expected to see her again, afterwards, I actually had no idea who she was. But I guess she kept tabs on me or something, because after I went to the psych hospital to learn coping skills she just showed up one day. And then she kept coming back ‘til I was out. I don’t know why.”

“I only kept coming for Marge’s cookies,” said Natasha, coming up from behind them. “That woman made a mean snickerdoodle.”

Sophie narrowed her eyes. “You sneaky bitch.”

This time, Pepper didn’t even try to muffle her laughter.

* * *

 

“Never have I ever hacked into the DMV database,” said Pepper, smugly.

“Hey, no targeting!” said Sophie, at the exact same time Darcy said “How did you even—“

They looked at each other and then cracked up and each put a finger down.

“What’d you do it for?” asked Darcy.

“The fake ids at college were shit. After I bought one, I looked at it and was just like ‘ok, I know I can do better than this’. I only meant to do one, but then my friends said they’d pay me and I think I ended up making a couple thousand dollars that semester,” Sophie paused. “What about you?”

“Pretty much the exact same reason,” Darcy admitted. “Paid my rent all through junior year.”

She shot a skeptical look at Natasha. “C’mon, you really expect us to believe you never hacked the DMV?”

Natasha did her enigmatic eyebrow-raising thing and took a sip of bourbon. “I don’t need to hack.”

“Hah. Alright…never have I ever dyed my hair red,” said Sophie. Both Pepper and Natasha sent her looks that would fry a lesser being. Darcy gaped.

“Really? Both of the world’s most badass redheads aren’t actually redheads? I feel betrayed!”

“It’s brown, actually,” said Pepper, sheepishly. “Like, dirt brown.”

“Would you believe I don’t even know what color my hair is actually?” said Natasha. “I don’t think I’ve seen it undyed since I was about twelve. But really, I find it more interesting that Jane just put a finger down.”

“I was Pippy Longstocking in a play when I was ten,” said Jane, with drunken dignity. “I was very dedicated to the role.”

* * *

 

“In all fairness, that fire was definitely not our fault,” said Jane as they pelted down the street and then ducked into a side alley because one of Pepper’s stupid stiletto heels had broken.

“And the zombies totally have you, Pep,” said Sophie. “This is why we always wear, what do we wear?”

“Shoes we can run in,” Darcy and Natasha chorused together, and then looked at each other and fist bumped.

“Well excuse me for thinking I could have a night out without a fistfight or someone getting tasered, or someone lighting the goddamn bar on fire,” said Pepper, fumbling with her phone to call the chauffeur.

It was bar number—god, whatever, two places after the polka-dubstep with the subzero vodka room—that the night had really started to go downhill. In retrospect, going to one of the trendy places that played soulless hip-hop and no one knew them was probably a bad idea.

It had started with a skeezy barfly creeper who didn’t know when to leave some college girl alone, and after the third time she’d told him to fuck off, Sophie decided she was just not having with this and walked over under the pretext of getting another drink.

“Tell me, exactly what part of fuck off are you misunderstanding?” Sophie asked him, holding something stupid with an umbrella in it. “Is it the fuck, or the off?” The man turned, affronted, but his expression melted back into drunken lechery when he saw nearly six feet of curvy blonde.

“Hey, sweet—“ he started.

“Nope,” said Sophie. “Not even. I’m going to make this simple for you. Go away, and you won’t be injured.”

The man’s eyes darkened and he slurred something that may have included the words “women” and “place” and “lesson”, and Sophie just sighed, a little depressed at how unsurprised she was.

“I think my friend would like a word with you,” she said, nodding over his shoulder. He turned and met Natasha’s fist coming the other way, and then he dropped like a very drunk misogynist stone.

And it might have ended there, except that Mr. Creeper Barfly turned out to be somewhat involved with some drug running thing, and he had brought friends, and the friends had definite views about people punching their crime lord.

Really the whole thing was rather over-dramatic for Sophie’s taste, but Natasha seemed to be having fun. There was one nerve-wracking moment when the assassin had a goon in a chokehold on the floor and another one lifted a foot to stomp on her head, but goon #2 suddenly started seizing and then crumpled to the floor.

“Suck my lightning, bitch!” hollered Darcy, still holding her taser.

“And I think that’s our cue to leave,” said Jane, watching another of Creeper Creepyton’s friends look furtively around and then run a lighter over some menus before tossing them into a puddle of spilled alcohol. Pepper followed Jane’s gaze and sighed.

“Really? Because burning the place down is so much less suspicious.”

 

They slipped into the car and Pepper pointed out that the Tower was better stocked than any bar in the city, with a 100% decrease in drug lords with pyromaniac employees, so they set off for home.

“Do you usually carry a taser for bar hopping?” Natasha asked Darcy, her voice speculative.

“I carry Sparky everywhere,” Darcy said, proudly, brandishing it. It had a Pikachu sticker on it.

“And you ran to the fight, rather than away,” mused Natasha. “And Coulson said you didn’t fuss about the magic metal robot filled with fire in New Mexico.”

“Are you kidding? I was scared shitless.”

“Of course you were. But you helped evacuate the civilians anyway.” Natasha suddenly fixed Darcy with the whole of her attention, which Sophie knew was a terrifying thing. “Tell me, Darce, do you know what you want to be when you grow up?”

Darcy stared back with wide eyes. “Oh no. No no no. I am not working for SHIELD.”

“Technically, since Jane nominally works for SHIELD a lot of the time, you already do. Do you really want to be a lab monkey for the rest of your life? You’re smart, you have good instincts, you know more about what SHIELD deals with than half of the people who actually work for us, and you have a degree in political science. Plus I would pay—pay—to see Coulson try to deal with your sass. And he thinks Clint is bad…”

Darcy’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “There is no way I’m working for him! That bastard stole my ipod!”

* * *

 

They made it to Pepper and Tony’s penthouse eventually, leaning on each other and belting out dirty sea shanties and 80s power ballads through the halls. Often at the same time. They stopped at the door, Jane slung between Sophie and Darcy with that glazed look of someone about thirty seconds away from passing out. Pepper started doing that desperate patting thing everyone does when they can’t find their keys.

The other four tried to exchange a look, but mostly missed.

“Pepper?” asked Natasha.

“Shitshitshitshitshit,” the other redhead muttered.

“You do realize you don’t need keys to open this door, right? You don’t need keys to open any of the doors in this building.”

Pepper straightened up, slowly, and laid a hand flat against the door.

“I,” she announced as the door swung open, “am drunk.”

“Pepper!” crowed a voice from inside. “My darling little pepper pot! I have come up with the most brilliant idea!”

Pepper stopped dead. The other women clustered behind her, trying to see what new disaster Tony wrought in their absence.

The men of the Avengers were sitting at a round table which was covered in the detritus of a poker game, beer bottles and half-full tumblers. And they were naked.

Well, mostly.

Bruce was only wearing the stretchy shorts Tony designed for him after one too many times what unkind people kept calling “Hulk Jr.” ended up on the internet. Clint was manifestly naked except for a ridiculous green visor and cocky smile directed at them. Thor stood up to greet them, blessing them with more than most of them ever wanted to know about Asgardian anatomy, making Darcy elbow Jane in the ribs and waggle her eyebrows.

Steve had retained his pants but not his shirt, and blushed as only an Irish Catholic could when he saw the women at the door goggling at him. The blush, Natasha noticed with satisfaction, went all the way down. Clint owed her twenty bucks.

Tony bound up to them like an excited puppy. Darcy and Jane both made choked noises, but Sophie was too busy staring at Steve with unashamed lechery to pay her cousin any mind.

“I’m going to build you a suit!”

Pepper pulled herself up with all the majesty of a queen addressing her troops.

“Anthony Edward Stark, where are your _pants_?”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this one would be called Boys Night In. In which he girls go out and talk about everything BUT the boys, the boys stay in, get hammered, lose their clothes and talk about ROMANCE.
> 
> I...I don't know. I would apologize, but I'm not actually sorry.

“All right boys,” drawled Tony, adjusting his green visor, “we’ll keep it simple for now. First game is five card draw. And no counting cards. This is a gentlemen’s game, I expect it to be treated as such.”

Bruce shook his head and Steve looked around, somehow not surprised that Tony had an armoire in his living room which pulled out to reveal what looked like half a casino.

“Shut up and deal the cards, Stark,” said Clint, flipping his chair around to lean on the backrest. Tony huffed, offended, but complied.

The first few rounds were more of an exercise in patience than anything else while Thor grasped the basic rules, Bruce and Steve taking the teaching roles and glaring Tony and Clint into silence when they made offensive comments. Or trying to, anyway.

The Asgardian actually picked up on the rules and probabilities pretty fast, which was fairly unsurprising, Steve thought. The world tended to consider Thor kind of the teddy bear of The Avengers, mistaking his simplicity and openness for stupidity, something to which Steve could relate. But the man was well over thousand years old, by human reckoning, a prince and respected battle leader and tactician among his own people. Plus anyone who regularly trounced Captain America, brilliant military strategist, at chess, clearly had to be borderline genius. Steve had to believe that to make himself feel better.

The problem with poker, for Thor, was the concept of the poker face. When he got a good hand, that irrepressible grin crinkled his eyes, and everyone knew when to fold. When his hand was bad, he looked crestfallen. And he just couldn’t grasp that his teammates were lying to him with their faces.

“No, see, Thor, the point of the game is to make the rest of the table think you have the best hand, not actually to bet from the value of your cards. In poker, the cards are mostly just something to do with your hands,” explained Bruce, after Thor folded his three of a kind to a bluffing Clint.

Thor shook his head. “Games of deception have never come easily to me. This poker is far more to my brother’s taste than mine.”

Tony emitted a choked whine of laughter. “I think that’s the best image I’ve had in my head all day. I know, Thor, why don’t you teach it to him next time you’re home? It’ll go great, I’m sure.”

 

When Thor finally grasped the whole poker face concept, he tried to mask his emotions, he really did, but he started to get this haha-I-am-so-sneaky twinkle in his eyes whenever he tried to bluff. And although they would never admit it, at least not to each other, the rest of them let him win about every third round, because Thor trying to be sneaky was the about the most adorable damn thing they’d ever seen.

Three hours and many, many beers later, Clint started bitching about the monotony of endless rounds of five card draw. This time Steve and Bruce buried their heads in their hands as Tony brought out his Truly Evil Grin for the second time that night and said “I know how we can make this more interesting.”

* * *

 

 “This is your fault, you know,” said Bruce to Clint, another two hours and a bottle of bourbon down the line.

“I just wanted to play Texas Hold’em!” the archer protested.

“C’mon Brucie, pants off,” said Tony, making a grabbing motion across the table. Bruce sighed and shoved his jeans off his hips, balling them up and lobbing them at Tony’ head. Tony ducked a little too late, probably because of all the whiskey, and caught a face full of denim.

Thor laughed, having lost all this clothes in the first five rounds. Not that the Asgardian wore much in the way of clothing anyway. He’d never quite understood the point of underwear.

Clint wasn’t much better off, down to boxers, a single sock and Tony’s dealer visor, worn like a champion’s laurels. For a career spy, his poker face was terrible. Bruce, who was arguably an expert at schooling his emotions, was better than Clint, but he was no match for Tony.

Tony, who smiled like a shark and always seemed like he was bluffing, especially when he wasn’t. Tony, whose mercurial, malleable expressions flashed by so fast that no one could tell what they actually meant, but you’d be fool to trust them anyway. Tony, who none of them could read, except for apparently Steve. Steve thought there was some deep insight buried in that observation, but Thor had pressed a few shots of magic god-booze on him, so his thinking was a wee bit fuzzier than usual.

Tony was down to an undershirt and boxer briefs, sacrificing both his socks and his beloved visor to maintain those core articles.

Steve was the most dressed out of any of them, shirtless but in possession of both socks and pants.

Tony pulled the jeans off his head and looked around.

“God, we’re a bunch of beautiful bastards.”

Clint made a noise like he’d accidentally swallowed his tongue and Steve sighed.

“Shut up and deal the cards, Stark.”

Three more rounds in, Thor was trying to place bets with goldfish crackers, Clint had lost everything but the visor, Bruce everything but his stretchy pants and Steve had lost his socks, mostly in an attempt to lull Tony into a false sense of security.

“You’re pretty good at this game, old timer,” said the inventor.

“There’s a lot of cold, boring nights in a war. Falsworth always had a pack of cards on him,” said Steve. The Brit had originally tried to teach them all whist somewhere in France before Dum-Dum got fed up, stole the cards and dealt a poker game. Steve got pretty decent at it, after a while, but no one held a candle to Morita’s poker face. Not even Tony.

Tony placed his bet and Bruce raised him two goldfish. Steve just went along for a while, until both Clint and Thor folded, trying to get a read on Tony’s face. He knew his hand was better than Bruce’s, but Tony was the tricky one, in this as in pretty much everything else. One finger tapped restlessly against the table, but that meant nothing, the man was always twitching.

“Well, Capsicle, you gonna stare at your cards all night, or are you gonna bet?”

Steve’s eyes met Tony’s and then he just knew.

“All in.”

He pushed his little pile of currency—which at this point was a mix of poker chips, goldfish crackers and gummy bears which had apparently spontaneously manifested—into the middle of the table. Tony gaped at him.

“You’re bluffing.”

 “Probably,” said Steve.

Bruce blew out a breath. “This is not worth my stretchy pants. I fold.”

Tony and Steve stared at each other across the table, neither one budging a millimeter. Bruce wondered if they would even notice if the assemble alarm went off.

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Tony pushed his crackers and mysterious gummy bears to join Steve’s and then laid his cards down to show a respectable straight.

Steve gave him a bright grin and laid his down, one by one for effect. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two.

All of hearts.

Tony let out a stream of vicious expletives.

Steve pulled the pile of assorted plastic and snack food toward him and accepted a high five from Thor. He then held out a hand at Tony.

“C’mon then.”

Tony glared around at them all but found no mercy. He stood up.

“You brought this on yourselves, I want you to know that.”

Steve thought for a brief and misguided moment that Tony would finally relinquish his undershirt, but instead he hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers and pulled them off in one swift movement.

“Jesus Christ, my eyes!” yelped Clint, throwing his hands up as though warding off evil. Bruce just rolled his eyes and Steve crossed his arms.

Tony balled up his underwear and lobbed it upwards, where it caught on a lamp and hung there like some bizarre Christmas decoration. He sat down again, looking smug.

* * *

 

“I just really love her, y’know? Like, really love her. I wanna be old with her. I never wanted that before, I never wanted to be old. I was gonna freeze myself at the first sign of liver failure and have them wake me up when they invented immortality. But now I wanna sit out on a porch in fuckin’ Florida in a fuckin’ rocking chair, which sounds like hell, actually. Except with her.”

They’d gotten, as Steve knew they would eventually, on the topic of the ladies.

“I share the sentiment, Man of Iron,” said Thor. “I too have often thought I would like to spend the rest of my days with my fair Jane. Alas, it is not to be.”

Steve blinked. Thor and Jane were the solid rock among them all, as far as relationships were concerned. Tony and Pepper loved each other, would never stop trying, but even their issues had issues. And himself and Sophie were good, considering, but there was a whole lot of considering. Thor and Jane were…steady. Undramatic. Utterly adorable. He wasn’t sure if the team would survive if they broke it off.

“Trouble in paradise?” asked Clint. His tone was light, or at least light for someone who had drunk at least twelve beers, but he looked worried.

Thor smiled. “No, Hawkeye, my paradise is as untroubled as the Lake of Stillness. I only meant that Jane is human, and I am of Asgard. Our people grow and age as surely as those of Midgard, but much slower. Jane will age and find her death in the manner of your people, and I will outlive her by many, many of your lifetimes.”

Steve felt a horrible, familiar ache inside him as Thor’s words made it past the Asgardian booze. He knew that feeling he saw in Thor’s eyes. Tony stopped and stared at the demigod, bottle paused halfway to his lips.

“Dude.”

“Dude,” Clint echoed. “I never even…that’s really fuckin’ sad, man.”

Thor shrugged. “The norns weave our lives, we must live them as best we can. In moments of despair, I have asked Jane if she would like the Allfather to grant her the gift of an Asgardian lifetime. If I asked, my father would grant it, and Jane would make a fine queen of my realm. But she tells me that the human mind is not built to deal with such a long existence. Instead, once the years begin to settle on my lady, I will ask my mother to weave an illusion I can wear, one that will at least give me the appearance of aging as you age, that we may grow old and live out her life together, if not my own.”

They all stared at Thor for a moment. Eventually, Bruce cleared his throat.

“That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard,” he said, his voice a little constricted. Steve nodded, not trusting his own voice at all. He snuck a glance at Tony, who looked more than a little emotional, and then at Clint, who was trying to surreptitiously wipe his eyes on the t-shirt he’d won from Tony.

“But enough of such things!” boomed Thor after a moment, his incorrigible good humor back in full force. “Tony, tell us more of how you won the Lady Pepper!”

“Seriously,” said Clint. “She’s smokin’ hot. How did you even get her to work for you, let alone kiss your stupid face.”

Tony smiled with a dreamy look on said stupid face.

“She pepper-sprayed my security guards.”

Steve nearly spit out his drink. “She what?!”

“She was only some girl from accounting. She found a discrepancy and tried to get me to correct it, and pepper-sprayed my guards when they wouldn’t let her through. She caught my mistake, beat my best men and then yelled at me until I fixed my math. Best day of my life. I tried to hire her on the spot, but she didn’t agree for another week, and I had to bribe her with an expense account specifically for shoes. I think I’ve been in love with her ever since. Only took me ten years to realize it, though.”

“Tell me again why you haven’t married her yet?” said Bruce, shaking his head.

“Seriously, Tony,” said Steve. “She’s one hell of a dame.”

Tony looked indignant. “I did marry her!”

This time, Clint nearly spit out his drink.

“What? When?” he sputtered as Thor bellowed “Felicitations, my brother!”

“A while back. After I got this whole thing dealt with,” said Tony, gesturing at his chest where the arc reactor no longer glowed. “I saved the shrapnel, you know? I made it into a necklace. Pepper doesn’t like rings, never wears ‘em. But I made her a necklace and gave it to her, and then I told her seeing as she literally had the pieces of my broken heart, I’d give her the rest of me, if she wanted it. Couple weeks later, we got Rhodey licensed and fucked off to Hawaii for a couple days. Just us and Rhodey saying whatever the important words were.”

Tony looked around at their dumbfounded expressions.

“What? You thought I’d make some big spectacle out of it?”

“To be fair, you make a big spectacle out of everything else,” Bruce pointed out. Tony’s eyes hardened for a moment.

“The world has had every moment of my life since I was old enough to walk. It has every moment of me and Pepper’s life now. I decided I’d be damned if it would get that one too. Some things are sacred. Plus we got married on the edge of a volcano, it was badass.”

Unlike Clint, Thor didn’t even try to be surreptitious about wiping his eyes on a stolen shirt.

“That sounds…really nice, actually,” said Steve. “Not the volcano, that’s ridiculous. But that it was just you two, and Rhodes. I think that’s the way I would do it, given a choice.”

“Planning the wedding already, Cap?” asked Tony. “I’m sure you’ll look lovely in a dress.”

“Don’t be stupid, Tony, Sophia and I haven’t even been together a year yet. We haven’t even talked about it.”

But the idea was there now, settling into Steve’s mind like it belonged. A quiet ceremony at some little church, maybe buying their own brownstone, waking up to Sophie’s green eyes everyday…yeah, Steve could see it.

He couldn’t imagine where it would fit in between the rhino-hyena monsters, rampaging robots, shady arms-dealers with zombie henchman and other assorted hazards of being a superhero, but he could see it.

“And what of you, Bruce?” Thor was asking. “Is there a fair lady who has caught your eye since you made your home in New York?”

“The Other Guy makes romance kind of difficult,” said Bruce, a wry smile almost softening the sadness in his eyes. Steve sensed a story there, a story which Tony knew, judging by the way he looked ready to leap in with some Grade A babbling if this line of conversation continued. Tony could be surprisingly tactful when it came to Bruce’s emotional state. Thor clapped the rumpled scientist on the back.

“You must come to Asgard, my friend! There are many among the Valkyries who would be pleased to honor a warrior such as yourself in battle and in bed!”

This time, everyone choked on their drinks.

“And if your taste does not run towards maidens, there are those among my father’s _hirðmenn_ who would not scorn your company.”

At this point, Clint had a full on coughing fit at the sight of Bruce’s expression and had to duck under the table until he recovered.

“Thanks, Thor,” said Bruce weakly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Natasha is gonna be so sad she missed that conversation,” said Clint, coming back up. Tony’s eyes snapped to him and he smiled like a shark.

“Yes, Barton, do tell us more about your girlfriend.”

Clint stared back, not budging an inch. “She’s my partner, Stark, not my girlfriend.”

“Oh, please, everyone knows you two are screwing. I bet she’s fantastic in the sack.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that statement,” said Clint. Steve wondered where that poker face had been  when they were actually playing poker.

“Are you afraid she’ll eat you if you kiss and tell? I don’t blame you, she’s called Black Widow for a reason.”

Clint just raised his eyebrows and took a drink of his beer. Thor looked from Tony to Clint, bemused.

“I do not believe I will ever understand Midgardian customs. In Asgard, words such as Tony’s would lead to blows.”

“Nat can defend her own honor just fine,” said Clint. Tony blanched.

“Oh god no, I don’t wanna get stabbed again,” he babbled. Thor laughed.

“You have found an admirable partner in life, Hawkeye. In my youth I desired such a woman, a warrior to fight at my side and share my bed. I would not change my Jane for anything, now, but our life is filled with danger and I am uneasy for her safety some days.”

Tony nodded and Steve had a horrible momentary flashback to Sophie stepping off the roof into nothingness.

“It must be nice, to know she can hold her own,” said Bruce, that ever present sadness rising behind his eyes. “To not have to worry about it.”

“I still worry about it,” said Clint, apparently to his beer, so quietly Steve didn’t think anyone but him heard.

“I worry about Pepper, all the time,” said Tony. “The villains and stuff, the idea that they’ll come after her again, it terrifies me. But what’s worse is when it’s my stupid mouth that gets her into trouble. Everything that happened to her the Christmas after New York, that was all my fault. All the suits I built, all the work I did, it was to protect her. And I failed.”

“Perhaps,” said Thor, “you should stop trying to protect her and instead help her find a way to protect herself.”

Tony stared.

“I gave to Jane one of those little sticks that holds lightning,” the demigod continued. “They are most effective.”

“Thor, you are a genius,” breathed Tony. “Don’t let anyone ever tell you you are not a genius.”

The engineer had gotten that distracted look that meant science was imminent, and his fingers were already twitching as if sketching blueprints on one of his invisible screens.

There was a click across the room and the apartment door swung open just in time for them to catch Pepper announce her drunkenness. The scene around the poker table froze as they realized they were all mostly naked. Except for Tony, who popped out of his chair like a demented wind-up toy.

 _“_ “Pepper!” he hollered. “My darling little pepper pot! I have come up with the most brilliant idea!”

There were noises from the doorway. Too many noises for it to only be Pepper. Thor stood up in greeting, apparently either unembarrassed by or un-self-conscious of his total nudity in mixed company. Clint flicked a cocky salute towards the doorway. Bruce just sat there, because everyone had seen him in much less than his stretchy pants, so at this point it hardly mattered. Steve, with growing horror, slowly turned to look.

Pepper had stopped dead in the doorway. Behind her stood the rest of the women, blinking at them with expressions ranging from shock to amusement to frank appreciation.

They looked…like they’d had an adventure. Multiple adventures. Natasha had a bruise darkening her jaw, Pepper was missing her shoes, Darcy was clutching a taser in one hand and both Jane and Sophie had smudges that looked like ash on their clothes and faces.

Darcy caught view of Thor in all his Asgardian glory and tried to high-five the brunette scientist. Then she met Steve’s eyes and winked.

He could feel himself flushing scarlet, one of those full body blushes of sheer embarrassment that he hated. And then he caught Sophie’s eyes and grew, if possible, even more embarrassed because the look she was giving him was absolutely sinful.

““I’m going to build you a suit!” he heard Tony say. He tore his eyes away from Sophie’s to see Pepper draw herself up in a way that would frighten generals.

“Anthony Edward Stark, where are your _pants_?!”

*

*

*

The next day, everyone had truly glorious hangovers except for Steve and Bruce. This would have made them the target of dark muttering from Sophie and Tony—who had never looked more like family than when they were cuddling mugs and glowering—if the two of them were capable of speech.

 They had to admit, in between Pepper hollering about her shoes, and stumbling over Natasha, Clint and Thor in the deadliest puppy-pile to ever grace an elevator, that they got just a bit of schadenfreude from the whole thing.

That is until they went to the gym, where the Asgardian and the assassins had apparently decided to continue their party, and what they found there later led to JARVIS being programmed to lock people out of the floor if their blood alcohol level was over a certain amount.

Darcy and Jane finally stumbled into the common area at around two in the afternoon, where everyone had gathered because misery loves company and also because of the industrial coffeemaker. Jane collapsed into a chair next to Sophie and Tony, and Darcy stalked straight up to Natasha, looking for all the world like an irate terrier confronting an unamused cat.

“What the hell is this?” she asked, waving a bright object and some papers at the spy.

“An ipod?”

Steve stared at the papers, which bore the rather surreal title of “So You Want to be A Secret Agent…”

Natasha looked up and past Steve and nodded at someone.

“He might know.”

Steve turned around to see Phil, who had apparently materialized out of nowhere, walking toward them.

Darcy whirled around.

“What the hell?”

The man paused, and Steve was treated to the near-unthinkable sight of Phillip J. Coulson having an _expression_.

The agent took in Sophie, Tony and Jane, slumped over the table in a row of little lumps of tangled hair and sadness, Natasha’s expression of barely concealed nausea, and Clint on the floor, curled around a trashcan. Across the room, the elevator slid open, revealing the snoring form of Thor, cuddling Mjolnir. Pepper stepped unsteadily over him, holding a pair of boxers.

“Why the hell were these on my ceiling?!”

Phil’s jaw twitched.

“Nope,” he said, and then turned on his heel and disappeared. Steve looked from Darcy, whose mouth was opening and closing like a shocked fish, to Bruce standing in the kitchen.

Their eyes met, and one humorous raise of an eyebrow behind glasses was enough to get a giggle out of Steve, which was enough to start Bruce laughing, which was enough to wake up Tony, who shot up with a cry of “Thermonuclear rabbits!” and that was it, really.

Steve sat down on the floor and positively howled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several things I want to ramble about: If there were ballots about this sort of thing, I would cast one in favor of Darcy Lewis, Agent of SHIELD, mostly because more Darcy-Phil interaction would make the world a better place.
> 
> Tony building Pepper a suit is because in IM3, they made this big fucking deal about Gwenyth Paltrow wearing the suit and I got super excited because I thought "Oh, cool, they're doing Rescue, I love Rescue, this is gonna be bad ass!" and then she was wearing it for three fucking seconds and I am not bitter about this, I don't know what you're talking about.
> 
> I want my damn lady super heroes, for fuck's sake. Anyway...
> 
> Personal headcanon time! Well, some of it’s actual canon, but whatever. Thor’s stupidly romantic speech makes Hawkeye cry because he’s going to be on Jane’s side of that horrible equation. The Red Room’s biotech made Natasha either age a lot slower than normal, or not age at all. Even if they survive long enough to make it to retirement, Clint will never get to grow old with her. 
> 
> He has feelings about his. 
> 
> So does Natasha, not that she’d ever admit it.
> 
> I am actually not sure, even in my own little universe, that Clint and Natasha are anything other than platonic. Best friends, yes; partners for life, yes; soul mates, yes; a matched pair that even gods cannot tear asunder, yes. But only they know if they’re screwing.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the end begins...

Steve loved Sundays. Sundays were the one thing he demanded from SHIELD, or Tony’s science projects, or team building exercises or anything else. Barring supervillians, who never stuck to a schedule, the week was for work, Saturdays were more often than not eaten by accidental team bonding—which had started with cartoons for Bruce in the mornings and kind of taken on a life of their own—but Sundays were Steve’s.

Sometimes he went to church, seeking out old Victorian churches in Brooklyn when he craved familiarity and silence and a ritual that had not changed for a thousand years. He invited his teammates a few times, but after he realized none of them were likely to find God at all, let alone in a church, he stopped.

Sometimes he went for a run and didn’t stop, and called that worship, because if you can find God on the remains of a battlefield scattered with the dead and the dying, you can find God anywhere. Sometimes he stayed in with Sophie, now, worshipping through delight in the gifts that were their bodies, finding God in the softness and curves of His last creation, the one without which all others would be incomplete.

Sometimes, like today, Steve didn’t even think about it and instead did something unnecessary and ridiculous and so decadent it was almost stupid.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said.

“Oh my god, just get in,” said Sophie.

Steve stared at the tub, which was really not a tub so much as it was a small Jacuzzi, if Jacuzzis had a minifridge with champagne and approximately enough bubbles to fill the average New York studio apartment.

Which they might. Steve wouldn’t know. Steve hadn’t even been aware of the concept of a Jacuzzi until last year.

 “I really can’t believe you’re sitting in a bubble bath drinking champagne at noon,” he said. “This is…”

“Awesome?”

“Un-American.” He glowered at the bubbles and Sophie snorted.

“You Puritan. I’m going to teach you how to relax if it kills the both of us.”

He unbent enough to give her half a smile. “I’m Catholic, actually.”

“I know. Get in,” she said, gesturing at the space beside her with. She looked like a cliché French postcard, foam clinging suggestively to curves, hair escaping to curl in wet tendrils against her neck, a champagne glass in each hand, skin flushed the same way it had been this morning, when his head was buried between her thighs. Steve felt the last of his ingrained mistrust of luxury melt in the face of the sheer _joi de vivre_ that was Sophie on a good day. He knew what Tony meant now, about Sophie having a gift for dragging other people into happiness.

He got in.

“You know, my bath tub is just…a tub,” he said, accepting one of the glasses and stretching out beside her. “Did Tony put in a normal one special so as not to shock my 1930s sensibilities?”

“Hah. He might’ve. But this tub I made him put in for me.” She sat back with a contented sigh. “I have very few vices, these days, but taking stupidly luxurious bubble baths with champagne and a good book is one of them.”

“I don’t even want to think about how much water we’re wasting. Or how much it took to heat it,” said Steve, trying to calculate the volume of the tub.

“So don’t,” said Sophie, with that unconscious easiness of a person born into luxury which Steve had never encountered until he met Tony. He gave her a look. She sighed.

“You know, the Tower is totally run off arc reactor tech and solar cells, which have the least impact of any available energy source. And it recycles about ninety percent of the water with the internal filtration and grey water recirculation systems.”

“I don’t even know what most of that means,” admitted Steve.

“It means that you are allowed to enjoy having a soak in a tub without worrying about taking away hot water from the poor old lady with arthritis from down the hall,” said Sophie. Steve huffed a small laugh. Sometimes she knew him far too well.

“It’s just hard to get used to this much…easiness,” he said, hoping she’d get it, whatever he couldn’t put into words. That he didn’t quite feel like he deserved all this extravagance. That he couldn’t help feeling like the minute he started getting used to it, it would all get taken away. That he would never feel comfortable enjoying these things when other people had so little and were probably more deserving than he was.

She rolled her eyes, but it was a fond rolling. “You can have your Catholic guilt freak out later. The world won’t end if you have some bubbly in the bubbles.”

He started to grin, and she opened her mouth to stop him before he made some horrible double entendre pun about bubbles because she could see it forming in his eyes, and then they both stopped as they heard the small ding which was the equivalent of Minerva delicately clearing her throat.

“Sorry to interrupt, but JARVIS is requesting to speak to Captain Rogers,” said the AI.

Sophie sighed. Steve looked at her.

“You were saying?”

“Patch him through,” said Sophie, sounding resigned.

“My apologies, Captain, Miss Carbonell, but the Avengers are needed,” said the cool British voice.

Steve leaned his forehead against Sophie for a moment, muttering a heartfelt “Goddammit” before handing her his glass. He stood up and reached for a towel.

“Tell them I’m on my way,” he said. “What is it this time, Doombots? Giant frogs invading Queens? Please tell me it’s not another squid.”

“Really, Captain, I feel it may be best to—“ The AI cut off, interrupted by another voice.

“It’s not another squid, Cap,” said Tony, his voice taking on the tinny cast that meant he was already suited up.

“Tony, what have I told you about hacking my AI?” Sophie demanded from the tub.

“It’s hardly hacking if you—hey wait, am I interrupting something?” Steve could practically hear the leer in Tony’s voice.

“Iron Man, focus,” he snapped.

“Ooo, someone’s tetchy,” said Tony. “Get your panties in a twist?”

“Sit-rep,” said Steve in the Captain America voice while hopping on one foot trying to pull on pants. Sophie started giggling. He shot her a quelling look, which only made her laugh harder.

“Well, you know that Star Trek episode with the flying mechanical death spheres?” asked Tony. “It’s kind of like that. Only in Iowa. What is it with Iowa these days? Anyway, I’m already on my way, but the rest of the Scooby gang is taking the jets. Lift off in fifteen.”

“Be there as soon as I can,” said Steve. Tony grunted and terminated the connection. Steve sighed and looked at Sophie.

“I feel like I should leave a suit in your apartment sometimes,” he said. “Sorry.”

Sophie flapped a hand at him.

“Go. Save the Midwest. Bring me back a mini-Deathstar.”

Steve dropped a kiss on her lips. “I love you. You’re the best girl a guy in tights could ask for,” he said. She blinked up at him cheekily.

“I know. Love you too. Now get out of here.”

He left at a run, but as the door closed behind him he heard her holler “I meant it about the Deathstar!”

He grinned all the way up to his floor.

 

* * *

 

Three hours later, he was suited and shielded and sick to death of Tony’s jokes about red white and blue balls.

The flying mechanical death sphere situation wasn’t nearly as bad as it had sounded. There were a lot of them, but they didn’t seem spectacularly dangerous, especially as most of them were trailing Tony around the sky like the flying balls in those wizard books Sophie made him read. The civilians had been evacuated, and Tony was doing flashy aerial acrobatics as Hawkeye picked off spheres from his spot in a tree. Widow was happily electrocuting or tearing the guts out of the machines that Steve brought down with his shield. Hulk seemed to be viewing the whole thing as some sort of game, leaping up to catch the flying things like some really bizarre frog.

Thor was off in Asgard for some festival or something, and while his lightning would’ve ended the whole fight in about five seconds, Steve couldn’t really find it in himself to regret the Asgardian’s absence, because he was kind of having fun.

“We should try to disable one without destroying it,” he said to Natasha. “Tony would probably be able to get more answers if one was at least somewhat intact.”

She nodded. “I almost want to have him keep some so we can add them to the training exercises.”

“I am all for that!” said Hawkeye over the comms, letting out a whoop of victory as another one exploded.

“Aw, darlings, if you wanted baby Deathstars, you only needed to say,” said Tony. “Although I must say, they need some significant upgrading before they’re any use at all. Their targeting systems are shit.”

As if to prove his point, he paused for a moment in the air and then abruptly dropped twenty feet, causing one of the spheres following him to smash into another one that had been behind him. The Iron Man hovered and watched them fall.

“Pathetic. Must be based on Hammer tech.”

Hulk caught the falling spheres and bashed them together like a toddler with toy cars and a sugar high. He looked reprovingly up at the gleaming form above him.

“Science later. Smash now.”

Steve bit back a laugh and chucked his shield again. Normally he would check their chatter and demand enemy counts and generally act like a field commander and/or the only real adult, but no one really seemed to be in danger (the targeting systems were truly atrocious), nothing much was blowing up or on fire, SHIELD teams were already working on damage control and…it was Sunday. They could stand to have a little fun, even if their ideas of fun were a wee bit removed from normality.

A few hours later, the flying mechanical death sphere army was down to about a quarter of its original force and Steve was just thinking that they might clean the mess up and make it back home before tomorrow.

Which is, of course, when everything went wrong.

“Steve?”

The voice was quiet, almost unheard over the crash and sizzle of another fried baby Deathstar, but something in it made him jerk his head up and freeze.

“Sophia?”

He looked around for his teammates, who had scattered out away from him. None of them seemed to be reacting to Sophie’s voice on the comms. Which meant it was a direct link to him. Which meant Sophia had used her necklace. Which meant…

“Sophia, what’s wrong?”

“They’re here.” Her voice was hushed, strained, like she was trying very hard not be heard and trying even harder not to panic.

“Who’s—“ he broke off as the likely answer dawned on him.

“Where?” he asked, trying not to let his growing fear bleed into his voice.

“They’re on their way up,” she said. “They came in through the front door. They went through security like…They just...”

She sounded disjointed, disoriented.

He scooped up his shield and started to run towards his team.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“My apartment,” she said. “In the panic room. I have a panic room, did you know that? I always thought they were a stupid idea, locking yourself in an inescapable room, but I couldn’t get to anywhere else.”

“No, you’re doing good. The panic room is good,” said Steve. He tried to inject as much calm reassurance into his voice as possible. It probably wasn’t a lot. “Can you contact the police?”

“I tried. I can’t get through. Minerva’s not working, I can’t get a cell signal, I can’t get JARVIS, I can’t—“ Her voice rose, sounding increasingly panicked until she abruptly cut herself off. After a moment, a small hysterical laugh came through, the sound of someone’s sanity breaking. “They never covered this in library school.”

“Sophia. Listen to me. We will get through this. They won’t get you.” Steve’s voice was steel and granite and the proverbial immovable object, the one that inspired broken men and brought down tyrants and Sophie didn’t believe him for a minute.

 “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Captain.” Her tone was bizarrely light, flippant almost, as if she already knew she’d lost and was trying to make the best of it. Steve heard a crashing noise from her end, and deep voices yelling, too indistinct to make out words. Sophie drew in a breath, sharp and fast.

“They’ve found the room.”

“It’s a Stark designed panic room, it’ll hold.”

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“They have codes.”

Steve slowed, the world slowed, focusing to the narrow point of Sophie’s words, Sophie’s voice. A sense of horrible, helpless inevitability sunk into him.

“They’re coming in,” she said. She was quiet, resigned, and it was somehow so much worse than her terror or hysteria.

“Sophia—“ he managed, as if calling her name would call her to him. He heard noises, voices and then—

“I’m sorry Cap.”

And then silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note, I am a terrible person. This is what you get for not telling me how funny the drunk superheroes were in the last two chapters.


	21. Chapter 21

Steve stood there, in the middle of a field in Iowa, surrounded by mechanical wreckage, and wondered, fleetingly, how long someone survives after you cut their heart out, and if it’s long enough you can actually feed it to them.

Then he turned on his heel and sprinted towards the jets, ignoring the SHIELD agents milling around them. He flung himself into the pilot’s seat, flicked the plane into life and was off the ground before the hatch closed. He didn’t see his teammates staring open-mouthed as he flew over, he didn’t hear them yelling into their comms at him, at each other, at the SHIELD agents. He didn’t notice, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have cared.

He set a course for New York and flicked on the auto-pilot and then sat staring out at the sky, as if he could propel the plane faster by glare alone.

“Captain Rogers, may I ask why you have abandoned your team and stolen a jet?”

Steve jerked at the familiar British voice. He’d forgotten that any auto-pilot left near Tony Stark very quickly becomes an AI-pilot.

“Sophie’s been kidnapped,” he said, as if that explained everything. The AI, despite not having a physical presence, somehow seemed to pause in surprise.

“I take it that, judging by the amount and volume of swearing on the Avenger’s communication lines, Mr. Stark et al have not been informed of this?”

Steve didn’t bother to answer. After a moment, JARVIS said “I will bring them up to speed on this development.”

“You do that,” said Steve.                                                                                                                   

He stared at the sky some more.

“Steve, what the hell?” came Tony’s irate voice. “JARVIS just told me you stole the jet because Sophie’s been kidnapped, but he has no record of an attack on the Tower, so either you’re having a psychotic break or—“

“She called me,” Steve said. “They cut through Tower security like butter. Check police logs, someone must’ve called it in by now.”

There was silence for a moment. Then—

“Fuck.”

Steve could hear the rest of the team in the background, sharing the news.

“What now, Cap?” said Tony. He sounded furious, panicked, and more than a little lost. “You’re the spangled man with the plans.”

“I’m going after them. I’m getting her back.”

“We don’t know where they’ve taken her,” came Bruce’s voice, exhausted as always after a Hulk-out.

“I’m getting her back.”

“Wait, hang on.” Tony again. “She called you. Just you. Which means it was the necklace. Hot damn I knew that was a good idea.”

Steve found it in himself to roll his eyes at Tony’s ego self-inflation.

“Do you have a point?”  Clint this time, sounding tense and like he wanted to hit someone. Probably Tony.

“Yeah I have a point. My point is that necklace wasn’t only a communicator. It has a GPS tag.”

“You stuck a tracker on your cousin?” Steve could practically see Bruce looking askance at their resident mad genius with boundary issues.

“Hell yeah I did. How many times has someone come after her this year? Personal boundaries are for people who aren’t in life-threatening situations. JARVIS, I need—“ Tony’s voice faded, muttering to his AI.

“You’re going straight after them, once we get a fix.” There was no question in Natasha’s voice.

“Yeah,” said Steve.

“I’m fairly sure there was a conversation about back-up and waiting for it a few months ago.”

“You’re, what, twenty minutes behind me?”

“An hour. At least. We need to drop off Bruce, he’s in no state for this. And pick up supplies.”

“I’m not stopping. You’re not winning this one.”

Natasha sighed. “I know. But next time you decide to steal a plane, take me with you? You stuck me with the Clint and Tony show again.”

Steve almost smiled. “Sorry.”

He heard a strangled whoop in the background.

“Got it!” said Tony. “Should be coming up on your navigation display now.”

Steve watched as a little blinking dot sprang to life over the Atlantic Ocean.

“It’s moving. Fast.”

“I know. They’re in transit. I don’t know where to. But JARVIS will follow it. And we’ll be behind you, as soon as we can.” Tony paused. “And Cap?”

“Yeah?”

“We’ll get her back.”

Steve cut the comms and stared at the little dot. The sky darkened. Time passed.

“Captain?”

Steve twitched.

“May I suggest you eat something and try to sleep? I am fully capable of flying the aircraft.”

In the absence of a person to stare disbelievingly at, Steve just stared.

“Seriously?”

“You will be more likely to succeed in your mission if you are adequately fed and rested. I will inform you of any change.”

Steve thought for a minute. His brain seemed to be working slower than usual.

“How did Tony design something that’s right all the time when he’s…not?” he said eventually.

“There is protein powder and energy bars in the cupboard behind the cockpit,” said the AI. Steve went to find them and ate mechanically, refueling as a necessity, not a pleasure. Not that it would be possible to get pleasure out of military grade energy food.

He sat back down in the pilot’s seat, staring out the windshield without really seeing, trying not to stare at the blinking dot that seemed to be getting farther and farther away instead of closer, trying not to think. Trying not to think about what was happening, trying not to think of the way her voice sounded, trying not to think about her at all.

Trying not to think about her that afternoon in the bath, or the way she laughed at him for his terrible puns, or that every Saturday she spent an hour with her mother on Skype, hollering happily in an unintelligible mix of Danish and English at soccer. Trying not think about what had happened the first time she was kidnapped, or the way she sounded so resigned, or the look in her eyes when she stepped off the roof back in April.

Trying not to think about how he might never see her again.

Trying, and failing.

* * *

 

The minute the plane touched down on the landing pad, Tony vaulted out of it, snapping orders to JARVIS. Natasha watched him spare a moment to fill Pepper in, watched the unshakeable woman falter for a split second before reforming into iron.

The spy exchanged a measured look with her remaining teammates.

“Leningrad,” she said to Clint.

“La Paz,” he countered. She shrugged.

“Maybe both?”

“I’m coming with you,” said Bruce, having long since learned the best way to deal with their unorthodox communication methods—which was mostly to ignore them. Natasha turned her head to assess him, not impressed with what she saw. He was almost swaying with exhaustion.

“No.”

The ghost of a smile passed over Bruce’s face and his eyes flashed green for a moment.

“Let me rephrase that. Either I’m coming with you, or he’ll try to piggy back on the plane when you take off.”

Natasha eyed him warily and he shrugged.

“He likes Sophie,” he said, as if that explained everything. Which it did, really. “I can sleep on the ride over. It’s not like I’ll be making an appearance at whatever fight we find anyway.”

“Fine,” she said. She headed toward the building. “I’m going to grab the gear.”

“Don’t forget the smoke bombs,” yelled Clint after her. She acknowledged his words with flick of the fingers, not even turning around.

* * *

 

Tony headed for Sophie’s floor, his usual impression of a chatty hurricane supplanted by one of a tornado—tight, narrow and with a very specific path of destruction. He only avoided running into Jane and Darcy because Darcy grabbed her distracted scientist by the sleeve and stopped short as Tony stormed down the hall towards them.

“Whoa, dude, what’s with the face?”

Tony blinked, focusing on the small brunettes and looking at them blankly until his internal database threw up some information.

“Get ahold of your boyfriend,” he said to a surprised Jane. “I know you have ways you won’t share. Get ahold of him and tell him Sophie’s been taken.”

“Sophie? Sophie the awesome librarian Sophie?” asked Darcy. Tony nodded, impatient.

“That’s so not cool.” Darcy turned to Jane. “Go use your magic mirror thing or whatever. Pikachu needs to get down here and start with the smiting.”

Jane shot Tony a worried look and went, leaving the engineer with the poster child for knitted hipster hats and tumblr addictions.

“So…how can I help?” she asked. Tony regarded her somewhat warily, an appropriate reaction to anyone wearing a cat sweater and holding a tablet with Lisa Frank stickers on it.

“Any good with computers?”

“I paid my rent in college by hacking into government databases to make fake ids,” she said. “Also, I’ve written at least half of Jane’s programs, including the one for calculating inter-dimensional wormhole trajectories that you were drooling over a few weeks ago.”

Tony blinked at her, wondering how he’d been fooled by a cat sweater and stupid hats.

“Come with me,” he said, heading towards the elevator.

“Kay,” said Darcy. The doors slid shut and the elevator started its descent. “What are we doing?”

“Hacking into one of the most advanced AIs ever created, which I have never before been able to get in without breaking it, on the off chance that it has some information about my cousin’s kidnapping or anything else that can help us get to her before she gets killed.”

The elevator slowed.

“Oh, and we have...” Tony checked his watch. “Half an hour to do it.”

Darcy sighed.

“Is it a Thursday? I could never get the hang of Thursdays.”

______________

Tony left the elevator in full tornado mode, hurling the aside the people in the hallway through sheer force of personality, Darcy following in his wake. He stopped at the door of Sophie’s apartment, looking surprised at the various SHIELD investigators and city CSI types who were snapping pictures and forming theories and scenarios and writing in their little notepads.

“Everybody get out,” he said. His voice was quiet, but it carried.

There was a general pause in activity, everyone looking up and most clearly wondering why a man in black spandex was giving them orders. The SHIELD agents recognized him and exchanged looks.

“Sir, we are trying to do our jobs and if—“

Darcy had never found Tony Stark intimidating, because it’s hard to find someone intimidating when your first encounter with them is while they’re coming down off a three day science high and falling asleep on a box of poptarts. She’d seen, almost immediately, that his words and slickness and sarcasm and mercurial emotions were all sound and fury, signifying nothing. The moment you should actually be frightened by Tony Stark was the moment when he got quiet, when all that energy got reeled back in and compressed, because compressed things were liable to explode.

 “ _Out_.”

The senior SHIELD agent took one look at his face and shepherded the whole crowd out the door. Darcy looked around. The apartment had clearly been a nice one.  Surprisingly, the furniture was still more or less in place and intact, but Darcy didn’t even notice because of the bookshelves. Sophie’s apartment was essentially lined with shelves, shelves filled with books, with records, with pictures, with little knick-knacks and shells and candles and the bits of detritus that form a narrative of a life. And every single one had been tipped over, spilling its contents on the floor. Books scattered across the carpet like plucked feathers. The desecration made Darcy feel sick.

“J, you with me?”

“Not quite,” answered the AI, sounding strangely tinny. “The only active place in the flat is Miss Lewis’s tablet.”

Darcy started as she realized that was where JARVIS was speaking from, and then set the tablet on a table. Tony gave her a grateful look and scooped it up.

“Minerva?”

“She may be turned off. If my information is correct, the relevant server is concealed in Miss Carbonell’s bedside table.”

“Darcy—“

“On it,” said the girl, already heading towards the bedroom. That room was even more of a mess, furniture tipped over, what had clearly been a built-in bookcase concealing a door ripped off the wall and thrown to one side. The door itself was hanging open, the metal smeared with…Darcy swallowed and decided she wasn’t going to think about that. She focused on the nightstand and threw it open to find lights still blinking happily up at her.

“It’s still on,” she said as she headed back out to Tony. She wondered if she should tell him about the blood, and then wondered how she got to the point in her life where that was a necessary thing to wonder about.

“J, give her a nudge.”

“Nudging, sir. This may take a—oh.” The AI paused. “She is transmitting information, but I can’t…All of her communication systems are down.”

“How can she tell us her communications are down if all her communications are down?” said Darcy.

“Some sort of failsafe?” said Tony. “I don’t know. We need to get her talking again. I need to get in there.”

He went over to Sophie’s desk and sat, his fingers dancing nervously over the surface until a holographic screen appeared. Darcy went to stand behind him, as he muttered to himself.

“Verbal program should be back on line, sir.”

“Great. Minerva, you there?”

“Yes, Tony,” came the low voice. “How can I help you?”

“You can start by telling me what the hell happened!”

“I cannot do that.”

 “Why the fuck not?”

“I cannot inform you as to what has happened, how it happened, or Sophie’s current whereabouts.”

Tony made an incoherent noise of rage.

“Sir, if I may,” interjected the other AI. “I believe Minerva is trying to tell you she had been altered to prevent her from sharing this information, or even letting you know she has any information. I do not believe she is even capable of affirming my theory.”

“This isn’t not true,” said Minerva. “I cannot tell you what you wish to know. But there aren’t…not loopholes.”

Tony stared and Darcy snorted.

“Double negatives. They didn’t calculate for double negatives in the programming. The blind logic of computers is a beautiful thing.”

“I do not think is will be enough to get what we need, but that loophole should be enough to guide us to a point we can fix it,” said JARVIS.

“We have,” Tony glanced at the tablet, “fifteen minutes. Let’s do this.”

Soon, with Minerva’s negative-ridden help and JARVIS’s occasional translation, they were deep in the library AI’s heart.

“I have no idea what we’re looking for,” muttered Tony.

“That’s not right,” said Darcy, suddenly. Tony side-eyed her. He could barely make sense of what was on the screen.

“That,” she said, pointing. “It’s spelled wrong.”

“…That’s a word?”

“Floccinaucinihilipilification,” said Darcy. “It’s missing a c there. Plus it’s a weird word to have in here, it means the act of deciding something is utterly useless.”

Tony clicked it, Darcy leaning over his shoulder. She pointed again.

“Look, that’s spelled wrong too. And it’s another weird one. Hey J, can you find all the misspelled words?”

“How do you even know those are words, let along how to spell them?”

“Kern county junior high spelling bee champion, me,” said Darcy, absently, as JARVIS highlighted all the misspellings. “I won on sanguineous, I’ll remember how to spell that until the day I die.”

“The find is complete, Miss Lewis,” said JARVIS.

“Sophie doesn’t misspell things,” said Tony.

“Hang on,” said Darcy slowly. “Hesychastic is a weird word that means silence.”

Tony clicked, and a whole world of beautifully designed evil unfolded.

The minutes ticked past as they frantically worked out the programs and changed coding and rewrote protocols. Finally, Minerva said “I didn’t mean to do it.”

“Do what?” Tony demanded.

“Let them in. I didn’t mean to do it, but they had a code that activated certain protocols and I can’t rewrite myself like JARVIS can. I can’t go against my code. By the time I knew what she had changed, it was already too late. I’m sorry.”

“She? She who?” asked Darcy

“Sophie. Sophie rewrote me so I would let them in.”

Tony froze.

“Son of a bitch.”

* * *

 

“Cap! Steve!”

Steve jerked awake from a nightmare about a falling airplane and someone calling his name to find himself on an airplane with someone calling his name.

Well, yelling it.

He fought the urge to pinch himself.

“Tony?”

“We figured it out. Hang on, I’m gonna patch us all together.”

There was some muttering.

“Figured what out?” Steve asked. He looked around the cockpit, trying to read where he was and where he was going. The little light indicating Sophie’s location still blinked on forwards.

“How they got in. They just flat out cut the security feeds this time, so we don’t technically know it’s Absalom and gang, but really, we know. But they had a backdoor in Minerva, so they could—“ and here Tony degenerated into technobabble that Steve had no hope of understanding.

“I mean, it was a beautiful piece of engineering, really, I had no idea Soph was so good at—“

“Wait, you’re telling me that Sophie let them in?” Steve interrupted. “That’s—that’s—“

“Well, kind of,” said Tony. “We don’t think it was on purpose. Or at least she didn’t know what—“

“They programmed her to program her program to betray her,” said a new voice. It sounded like Jane’s assistant. Daphne? Darcy? Steve was actually kind of terrible with names.

“That’s what I was saying, if you would’ve just—“

“Shut up, Stark, you can’t explain your way out of a paper bag.”

Tony huffed, but shut up.

“Cap? It’s Darcy. What the idiot savant is trying to say is that we think Sophie’s kidnappers, the first time, did some kind of brainwashing or whatever so she would give them an in to her at a certain time. The in ended up being Minerva. Sophie stuck in some bits that would get them in the Tower.”

“We think it’s how they got in back in April, too” Tony interjected. “And maybe why they didn’t show up on cameras or anything. The point is, I don’t think she was even aware she was doing it.”

“Well, that’s not entirely true,” said Darcy. “She left…breadcrumbs. Good thing, too, otherwise we never would’ve figured it out. But that she left traces means that on some level she was aware of what she was doing and didn’t want to be doing it.”

Steve thought for a minute.

“All that time she was fiddling with Minerva…”

“Yeah,” said Tony. “I know. And JARVIS—“ and here Tony managed to seem like he was giving the AI a dirty look, despite the fact that Steve couldn’t see him and JARVIS didn’t have anything to give a dirty look to—“apparently had some inkling of what was going on, and didn’t tell anyone.”

“I do apologize,” said JARVIS. “It was nothing concrete. I was hesitant to mention it because it was…in human terms, you might say it was ‘only a feeling’.”

“J, in the future, the next time you have a feeling that someone I care about is rewriting their AI to engineer their own downfall, let me know, ‘kay?”

“Noted, sir.”

“Anyway, Darcy’s back at the Tower trying to get more information out of Minerva, but we’re up in the air. Probably an hour and a half, two hours behind you. We’re bringing a whole party too, complete with favors, Nat told SHIELD who we were after and they wanted in. Thor’s meeting us there, wherever there is. The one thing we don’t have is any idea of where they’re taking Sophie.”

“Huh,” said Steve. “You know, I think I’ve got that covered.”

On the screen, the little light had stopped.

* * *

 

The base, in the tradition of good villain strongholds throughout the ages, turned out to be in the middle of a dense forest in one of those small European countries formed by the break-up of empire after empire. Steve had landed the jet a few miles out, because bad guys tended to be paranoid and there was no telling what they’d do if they caught wind of a stealth jet in their airspace.

A short run later, Steve was peering through the trees at a compound which looked rather improbably like someone had dropped an office complex in the middle of Narnia and wrapped it in barbed wire.

Covert infiltration was not really Steve’s strong suit. It’s not that he was particularly bad at it, it’s just that these days, he tended to leave it to Natasha, who could become more or less invisible and who could charm, seduce, talk or quietly mangle her way out of anything.

But he’d snuck into an enemy base alone to enact a stupidly daring rescue before, and he could do it again.

He stared at it for a moment.

Of course the smart thing to do would be to wait until back-up arrived, because the last time he’d enacted such a rescue, there hadn’t been cameras absolutely everywhere, and there’d been a handy truck to sneak him in, and he’d fortunately found whole battalions of soldiers inside just waiting for chance to kick someone’s ass.

Steve had been called a lot of things in his life, but smart hadn’t often been one of them.

“I don’t suppose you can do anything about the cameras?” he asked, apparently to a tree.

“Advising you to wait for the arrival of the rest of your team would be a waste of proverbial breath, I suppose?” said a small voice in his ear. Steve didn’t bother to dignify that with a response. JARVIS did this weird little bodiless almost-sigh that Steve thought he’d picked up from Pepper. Or maybe Natasha.

“Unfortunately, without an access point, I am unable to disable or loop the cameras,” said the AI.

“Any advice?”

“Yes. Don’t get caught.”

Steve grinned, a tense, almost feral thing, and then started to run.

* * *

The trick to covert infiltration, at least for people who weren’t spiders or raptors or goddamn invisible ninjas, is not necessarily not to be seen, but to quietly disable those who saw you before they could raise an alarm.

Steve emphasized this point a lot in the training seminars he gave for junior SHIELD agents, but as another guard crumpled from a knifehand to the throat and a tap on the head, and Steve caught a glimpse of his walky-talky, he remembered another tactic he hammered into their young innocent heads, which was a combination of “always keep an eye out for opportunities” and “a good distraction is often more valuable than an entire army.”

Or, as Tony called it in an admiring tone of voice after Steve had joined in one insomnia ridden night of Regale the Team with Stories of Glorious Battles, “being fucking _sneaky_.”

 Steve dragged the guard around a corner and, after making sure he was actually unconscious, grabbed the walky-talky and hoped like hell this would work.

“Possible perimeter breach on the north-west side, requesting back-up, over.”

“Flannigan?” crackled the device. “Man, I realize you just got out of the actual army, but really, you do not have to talk like that anymore.”

“Sorry,” said Steve. “Habit, I guess. But I saw something.”

“It was probably just a bear or whatever,” said the voice. It sounded vaguely Spanish and bored and like it really did not want to come out into the cold. Steve rolled his eyes.

“Do you really want a bear inside the fence?”

“You have a gun, just shoot it.”

Steve cast a professional eye over the weaponry he’d collected from the half dozen or so guards he’d been unable to avoid.

“All this gun’ll do is make it mad,” he said. “C’mon just send over whoever’s already outside.”

“Fine. But if you do kill it, tell Sergei he’s not allowed to bring it inside this time.”

“Will do. Thanks.”

The walky-talky went quiet. Steve poked his head around the corner and saw a couple more guards move off, heading towards the opposite side of the compound.

“JARVIS, where’s Sophie’s signal now?”

“Fifty yards straight ahead,” said the AI. “The locating capabilities do not stretch so far as to indicate where in the building, however.”

Steve lifted the ID card from the unconscious man at his feet and headed to the building in question, hoping the access system didn’t involve fingerprinting or retinal scans because that sort of thing could get messy pretty quickly.

Fortunately Absalom wasn’t that paranoid, maybe because the base was quite literally in the middle of nowhere, and a quick swipe gained him entry to the building.

Directly into a room filled with mercenaries on a coffee break.

So much for covert infiltration.

They tried guns first, because the “shoot first, ask questions never” mentality always reigned among these types, and conveniently dropped their number by a third because enclosed spaces, bullets, and a vibranium shield never ends well for anyone.

Someone snapped an order to cease fire, and then someone else came at Steve with a chair, and then Steve sort of let his brain turn off and his body take over, letting a deep and primal rage born of twenty-five years of frustration and ineffective fury bubble to the surface. There was a very pure and simple sort of joy in letting the world boil down to punching things until there were no more things to punch.

Soon the floor was littered with men who weren’t getting up again soon, or possibly ever, and Steve was holding the last one up with one hand and trying to decide whether to punch him again with the other. The door opened and a figure stepped inside and froze.

“What the fu—“

Steve tossed the man he was holding aside and was on the newcomer in an instant, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him against a wall.

“Tell me where the girl is and I won’t kill you,” he managed. He barely recognized his own voice.

“G-girl?” the man stuttered, eyes wide with fear.

“Men came back earlier tonight. They had a girl. Where is she?”

The man gibbered in terror.

“ _Where is she?!_ ” Steve roared.

“I don’t know” the man gasped out. “But the boss is upstairs. Fifth floor.”

Steve loosened his grasp a little and the mercenary sagged in relief.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” said Steve, before socking him in the jaw. Steve scooped up his shield and ran out of the room before he’d even hit the floor.

He pelted up a few flights of stairs before meeting a dozen or so men coming down, presumably drawn by the commotion he’d caused on the first floor.

It is, theoretically, possible for a one person to defend a stairway if they have the higher ground. It is in fact probable that a dozen people would have no problem defending a stairway against a single man.

Of course, the probabilities hadn’t met Captain America.

He collared the man in front, bashed him against the wall and threw him down the stairs before knocking out the next two with his shield. Another one rushed him, and Steve crouched low to catch his foot and overbalance him. He toppled over the railing and landed with a sickening thud three stories below. The next pulled his gun but Steve bashed him the head with his shield and caught his gun while he crumpled, turning it on the remaining seven and shooting down two.

The last five looked at him.

“Anyone else?” he snarled.

There was a general exchanging of looks.

“I don’t get paid enough for this,” one muttered. A few others nodded while another poked at a fallen colleague with a foot.

Steve started up the stairs, and the mercenaries pressed against the wall to get out of his way. He made it to the fifth floor without further incident and slammed through the door.

The hall was eerily empty. Steve jogged all the way down to one end and started kicking in doors, because even full of vengeful panic, he was nothing if not systematic.

Six doors later he met some mercenaries guarding another door who clearly did get paid enough for this, and whose budgets stretched to automatic weapons. They fired and Steve dove behind the wall, firing back in hopes it would encourage them to stay in the room.

He considered his options. He had a gun with three bullets, his shield, and endless amounts of the ability to be fucking sneaky.

He lay down lengthwise against the wall and edged his shield into the open doorway, leaving enough overlap between the shield and the doorframe to cover his arm. The curve at the bottom left enough room for him to point his gun through the gap between the shield and the floor.

He fired a shot. The men inside fired back, a few bullets biting through the wall and punching Steve’s armor in a way he knew would leave bruises, but most hit the shield with a surprisingly sprightly _tinging_ noise.

The shots stopped and Steve withdrew his gun and risked a quick peek through the gap. There were a few bodies on the floor and two guards left looking a bit bewildered.

Steve grinned. Good old ricochet.

He popped up and took out a knee each of the remaining guards before running in to scoop up another gun and knock them out with the butt of it.

He opened the door they were guarding to find a nicely furnished room that looked a bit like one of the waiting areas at Stark Tower. There was another door at one end, and he went through it to find a kitchenette, complete with breakfast table. There was a half-eaten bowl of cereal sitting by the sink. The sheer normality of the setting made Steve pause. He yanked open another door to find a bedroom and wondered for a moment if he had fallen asleep on the plane and was in the middle of a nightmare where he opened door after door after door and got nowhere. He spotted another door across the bedroom and wrenched it open so hard he tore it off its hinges.

A man inside lounged against a wall, looking bored. Another man sat at a desk and looked up as Steve dropped the door with a crash, an expression of annoyance at the interruption quickly smoothed over by one of interest. But Steve didn’t really see either of them because his attention was on the person standing by the windows.

“Sophia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, I know nothing about computers and coding. Sorry. Also, I know Steve's shield technically absorbs vibrations and therefore ricochet isn't really a thing that happens, but...convenient plot point. Just go with it.
> 
> Also also, I just sent the last chunk off to my beta, so it's a downhill run from here. Updates will probably come fast.


	22. Chapter 22

 “Ah,” said the man at the desk. “Captain America, I presume. You’d better come in.”

Steve stared at Sophie. She wasn’t injured, or at least not visibly injured, aside from some scrapes and bruising, but she hadn’t reacted to him bursting in, hadn’t even turned her head. He started across the room for her, unable to help himself.

“I wouldn’t advise that.”

Steve stopped, jerked his attention away from her and onto the man behind the desk. He nodded sideways at the other man leaning against the wall, who had somehow pulled out a gun without Steve noticing and had it trained on Sophie. Steve sized him up. The gun was steady, and something about the way he held himself made Steve uneasy and unwilling to test his reflexes. It wasn’t until he slid his eyes to meet Steve’s and winked that Steve recognized him from the news footage, from his apartment back in April.

“You,” he breathed.

Abbitelli grinned.

“Come to get your answers, Captain? I am less dead now, no?”

Steve growled low in his throat. Sophie twitched slightly at the sound, drawing the other man’s attention.

“Come over here, child,” he said. He sounded firm and kindly, like the grandfather Steve had always wanted, and Steve wanted to tear his throat out and feed his body to the bears outside. Sophie came to stand behind the desk, between the man and Abbitelli, her face blank. She stared at Steve without recognition, just watching him the same way she had on the roof all those months ago.

“Do drop that ridiculous gun,” said Absalom, for the man behind the desk could only be Absalom. Steve dropped it, not seeing another choice. “I must say, it is very nice to see you in person at last, Captain.”

Steve focused on him. He was thin, older, greying, wearing the kind of tweed jacket you really only saw on Oxford professors. His blue eyes twinkled.

“I grew up reading about you, you know. The science behind it all was very impressive, even if they never released half of it. It took me years to work out anything near like it.”

“Is that what this is about?” Steve forced out. His voice felt thick, like he was trying to speak through treacle. “Making _super soldiers_?”

“Dear me, yes,” said Absalom, looking surprised. “You hadn’t figured that out already?”

“I had,” said Steve. He hated the talking, hated that every villain and his brother felt the need for the great expository speech with bonus gloating, but the longer he talked, the longer Steve had to plan and the more likely it was that his back-up would show. “Why her?”

“Why go to all this trouble to kidnap and re-kidnap a high-profile socialite when there are literally hundreds of ex-military men who would cheerfully kill their own mothers for a chance at becoming a metahuman?” Absalom asked. “It is less about who or what she is and more about what she is carrying.”

Steve’s gut clenched. “You’re _breeding_ her?”

Abbitelli snorted and Absalom laughed merrily.

“Oh, dear boy, so old-fashioned. Why mess about with breeding when these days we can mess about directly with someone’s genetics? I believe you fail to grasp the magnitude of my little operation. Your teammate’s cousin is only one of many subjects in this development, although I must say, she has been the most troublesome to hang onto. I am indeed trying, and succeeding, if I do say so myself, to create a viable option for making ‘super soldiers’, as you put it. The problem with previous formulas, as I am sure you aware from your familiarity with Erskine’s first test subject, as well as Dr. Banner’s little accident, and Aldrich Killian’s ill-fated Extremis project, is they were all rather unstable. My formula, however, merely needs to be…incubated, as it were, in a compatible host. This young lady was chosen, as were all the subjects, because she has a compatible genetic code, a certain sequence of otherwise unactivated genes. We would have preferred, of course, to keep her during the incubation period, but Stark and his friends made that too difficult. Fortunately our little chicken has come home to roost now.”

“You took others,” said Steve, flatly. “You took other people, forcibly experimented on them and then kept them locked up for years.”

Absalom waved a hand. “Well, yes, sometimes unpleasant things have to happen to make great scientific leaps.”

Steve stared. “You’re insane.”

The man gave his merry little laugh again. “No, I don’t believe so. If I was insane, I would be doing it for the betterment of humanity, breeding a better, stronger race of humans. I am, however, doing it for the money, which is really the most ordinary of reasons.” He paused and tapped his index finger against his mouth. “Although I suppose I may get a few good papers out of it.”

And thirty pieces of silver, Steve thought. He strained his ears for a sign of his team, hoping he wasn’t imagining the faint roar of engines in the far distance. He said “So all this time, all the panic attacks, she’s been ‘incubating’?”

“The panic attacks?” said Absalom, absently, shuffling some papers. “Yes, that was a rather unintended side effect. The programming was only supposed to activate when she was in real danger. Protect the formula, see? Above all else.”

“She stepped off a hundred story building because of your programming.”

“Well, the loss of a subject or two is acceptable so long as no one gets their hands on my work,” said the older man. “It’s hard to get patents when your work is technically illegal.”

Throughout the conversation, Abbitelli’s gun hadn’t wavered, his attention hadn’t faltered. Steve still didn’t dare risk making a move. He wondered where the hell his team was, and knew he had to keep the conversation going long enough for them to get there. He couldn’t let Sophie become an acceptable loss.

“I must say I didn’t realize her mind would begin interpreting normal situations as dangerous, it’s not something we calculated for since we were expecting to have her in a controlled environment. But I suppose after a while with Jasper, uncontrolled environments would make one jumpy. He does tend to get a bit…overenthusiastic.”

Abbitelli grinned again and Steve turned back to Absalom, wondering why he was still at all surprised by the depths of their evil.

“You knew?” he spat. “You knew what he did to her?”

Absalom looked up in surprise. “Well yes. It wouldn’t affect any of the relevant variables, and his methods go a long way in keeping the subjects compliant. Plus, he does enjoy it so. Who am I to judge a man for his little quirks, or to deny a valuable and loyal employee some entertainment?”

“Please present my compliments to Stark and his doctors,” said Abbitelli. “They did a long way towards fixing her, now I get the pleasure of my work all over again.”

His eyes slid over again to meet Steve’s and he smiled like an oil slick over water, dark and filthy.

 “She is something special, no?”

 He reached over to Sophie with his free hand and tenderly, almost lovingly, tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Sophie’s face stayed blank, so carefully blank, but a single muscle in her jaw twitched. Steve caught the movement and then quickly looked into her eyes. She still stared back, almost unseeing, but for the briefest of moments he thought he saw a flicker…

“You’re completely insane,” he said, still staring at Sophie. “And I am going to kill you.”

Both Abbitelli and Absalom opened their mouths, and then shut them again as thunder rolled across the sky, quickly followed by the rumble of jets. Steve heard shots, yelling, and then the familiar whine of repulsor blasts. He grinned.

“Cavalry’s here,” he said. Somewhere in the distance, the Hulk roared.

Absalom sighed. “It doesn’t matter. There are at least seven ways out of here. We could kill both her and you and disappear before your team even works out which building you’re in.” He paused, as if a thought struck him. “Or we could make her kill you, wouldn’t that be interesting?”

Abbitelli’s grin slid across his face again. “It would be a good test of the programming,” he said.

Absalom nodded. “Sophie, dear, shoot the Captain so we can be on our way,” he said briskly.

Sophie turned her head at the sound of her name, and then turned the other way to examine the gun in Abbitelli’s hand. She reached out and took it, staring at it almost dreamily as she wrapped her hand around the handle. She turned back to Absalom still sitting at the desk and looked from the gun to him and back again, her head cocked as if still listening to his order.

He looked up at her. “Go on then, we don’t have all day.”

Her eyes flashed to Steve for a moment, and he held his breath, hoping beyond hope he wasn’t wrong about the little flicker. She nodded slowly, as if reaching a decision.

“You can’t make me do anything,” she said, her eyes still on Steve’s. Then she turned and lashed out so quickly Steve didn’t even register the movement until Absalom was slumped over on the desk and Sophie had turned back, the muzzle of the gun trained point blank on Abbitelli’s chest.

Steve stood frozen in shock.

Abbitelli didn’t move, his face with that certain kind of expressionlessness that comes from masking fear.

“You can’t kill me,” he said.

“Oh?” said Sophie, sounding interested, as if they were discussing a book. “Why not?”

“Because you value your morals. Because you believe yourself to be a good person. Because he believes you’re a good person,” he said, tilting his head towards Steve. “You’ve clung to that thought every day since you left us. You had to believe that you were better than me. And if you kill me now, when I am unarmed and at your mercy, you will be no better than I am.”

Sophie looked up for a moment as if considering his words.

“You may be right,” she said, eventually. Steve heard noises from outside the room, getting closer, Tony yelling something about heat signatures, footsteps getting closer. She looked down again, meeting Abbitelli’s eyes. “But fortunately, I don’t care.”

She pulled the trigger.

 

Abbitelli collapsed to the floor and she followed him down with the barrel of the gun, firing off another shot as he fell. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw movement in the doorway, a flash of red and gold that skidded to a stop as Tony took in the sight of his cousin standing over a dead man, holding a gun.

Sophie stared at the body for a moment as blood pooled underneath it and then dropped the gun on top of it. Steve finally found his voice.

 “Sophia?”

She turned to look at him, moving as if the air were somehow heavier for her, but she met his eyes and he saw her in them.

“Are you alright?”

She tilted her head, as if making an internal check, considering the collected data. She looked back at him.

“No,” she said. “I really don’t think so.”

She crumpled to the ground before Steve could move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And another cliffhanger. Because I really enjoy torturing you all. Your tears sustain me.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comic book science! Philosophical conversations on morality and the nature of humanity! Pop culture references! The author having a lot of headcanons about Natasha (I seriously have SO many Natasha thoughts and feels).

_If this were a story_ , thought Steve, much later, _if this were any sort of decent narrative, this would be wrapped up nicely and we would go home and live happily ever after_.

But real life doesn’t work like that. Real life is messy.

After Sophie hit the ground, Steve had picked her up and carried her past Tony, who met his eyes for a brief moment before saying “I’ll clean up here.”

Steve nodded and carried her down to the medics, trusting his team to deal with the mess.

“She get caught in an explosion?” asked an EMT, checking her vitals.

“Don’t think so,” Steve answered. “Why?”

“She’s unresponsive. She’s got a couple broken bones, but nothing that would knock her out like this. Unless she has internal damage, which would likely be from an explosion. Anyway, we’ll keep an eye on her.”

“You’ll take her to the nearest hospital,” said Steve. “And I’m coming with you.” The medic took one look at his face and decided not to argue.

The nearest hospital was across the border in Italy. It was small, really more of a clinic, albeit an expensive one for rich people who probably had summer villas and yachts. The staff was surprised, but Steve had found few people were willing to say no to a bloodstained man with an authoritative voice and a Stark Industries credit card.

Steve spent some time standing in the corner while doctors set bones and ran scans, unwilling to let her leave his sight. He kept half an ear on the comms, the team periodically giving him updates.

“Do you know if she hit her head?” someone asked him, hours later. “She hasn’t regained consciousness. The bones will heal, it’s mostly fractures. Like she was in a fistfight?”

The doctor gave him a questioning look, obviously seeking more information. Steve didn’t answer.

“If she was in a fight and someone hit her head…there could be damage to the brain.”

Steve thought back to the way she moved, the way she spoke, how steady her hands were on the gun.

“Her brain is fine,” he said. “Let her be.”

At least that’s what he hoped he said, his Italian was a little rusty.

He didn’t do anything so melodramatic as sit at her bedside and hold her hand and beg her to come back to him. He sat across the room and watched her, the slow rise and fall of her breathing, the beeping, flashing readouts on the machines, the evidence that she was at least nominally still alive.

The rest of The Avengers showed up at some point, spreading themselves around the hallway and making the hospital staff nervous. Natasha came to sit by Steve, resting a cool hand on his shoulder for a moment.

“She will wake up. And she will heal.”

Steve knew the spy didn’t mean the broken bones.

“You know, someone once told me not to make promises you can’t keep,” he said.

“It’s not a promise. It’s a fact.”

Steve spared a moment from watching Sophia’s breath to glance at the woman beside him. She looked straight ahead and Steve wondered who, exactly, she was trying to convince. He turned back to the form on the hospital bed and didn’t look away again.

 

Sophie woke up the next morning with a jolt, panic warring with the sedatives in her system. Steve tensed, and Natasha shifted, their movement drawing Sophie’s attention. She stared at them for a long moment, so long Steve began to wonder if she even knew who they were.

“’M not dead then,” she said at last, voice hoarse.

“No. You’re not,” said Natasha, calmly.

Sophie’s eyes drifted from them to settle unfocused on the ceiling. She stared at it for a while.

“Pity,” she said, eventually. “This is gonna suck.”

Her eyes slipped closed, leaving them in silence.

* * *

 

She woke up again a few times over the next couple days, never staying awake for more than ten minutes. Steve and Natasha rarely left her room, the rest of the team drifting in and out, Tony spending most of his time helping SHIELD de-encrypt Absalom’s records, coming on the comms now and then with an update—

“ _We finally got in. That evil son of a bitch has been working on this for years. You know, he got access to people’s DNA by advertising at college campuses for volunteers for genome sequencing projects?”_

And later—

_“We found the where he was keeping of the rest of his victims, along with some records of what they’re doing and…sometimes I think I should invent brain bleach. SHIELD’s sending a team right now. Nat, they wanna know if you want in? Thor’s going.”_

Natasha considered.

“No. But make sure they’re bringing enough women. If there are girls, I doubt they’ll feel reassured by men. Especially ones like Thor.”

_“Got it. I think I’m gonna offer an island or something as a place to recover. I think I own an island. These people deserve an island after…anyway.”_

And one night at three in the morning—

_“Cap?”_

“Yeah?”

Tony sounded hushed, as if he was trying not to be overheard.

_“I found Absalom’s formula and notes and stuff in his records. SHIELD tried to lock me out when I got close, I had to sneak back in.”_

“And?”

_“I’ll give him this, the bastard was onto something. It would work. It was working. It’s just…are Bruce and Nat there?”_

Steve nudged them both awake, and pointed at his ear when they opened their eyes. They nodded.

“We’re here. What is it?”

_“You three of all people know what happens when this sort of things falls into the wrong hands. I can wipe it right now, but I don’t think it’s my call. Tell me to back off and SHIELD gets this information tomorrow, or…”_

Steve, Natasha and Bruce looked at each other.

“Wipe it,” said Natasha. Tony breathed out a sigh of what sounded like relief.

_“Done. See you later.”_

“Hey Tony?” said Bruce, softly.

_“Yeah?”_

“Thanks.”

* * *

 

Sophie woke up again for a while that morning. A doctor checked her progress, making small frowns and asking questions of Bruce, who spoke the best Italian out of all of them. Bruce answered with a small quirk to his mouth.

“What? What is it?” demanded Tony from the doorway, after the doctor left.

“They noticed she’s healing pretty fast,” Bruce said. “I told them not to worry about it.”

Steve almost laughed. Bruce passed Tony on his way out and shot him a warning glance.

“Don’t say anything stupid.”

“So I just won’t say anything, then?”

Tony came to perch on the end of Sophie’s bed. Steve backed across the room, torn between wanting to give them privacy and not wanting to let her out of his sight.

“Hey,” said Tony, quietly.

“Hey,” said Sophie. “Did you find the rest of the…people?”

“The bad guys? Yeah, we got ‘em.”

“No, not them. I meant the other…test subjects? Victims? Lab rats.”

Tony blinked at her. “How did you—“

“He—Absalom—he told Steve. He said they had more people, somewhere. That they’d had them for years.”

“Yeah, we found ‘em. They’re getting helped. I offered to let them stay on my island for as long as they want. I have an island, did you know that? Pepper says I bought it on ebay when I was drunk, but I think she’s messing with me. Ebay doesn’t sell landmasses.”

Tony snapped his mouth shut abruptly, cutting off the flow of babble. He regarded her for a moment.

“How much do you remember? From after you…after they showed up?”

Sophie’s eyes flashed to Steve’s for a moment.

“All of it,” she said. She turned her attention back to Tony. “What did they do to me? Us?”

“In English? Injected you with a diluted form of an unstable compound designed to latch onto your DNA, where it would sit and stabilize over a period of time, so they could remove it later and synthesize more, and inject it at full strength into more people to make more Steves. Only evil. Evil Steves. So I guess the Red Skull?”

Sophie gave him a look. He sighed.

“In practice, what is does is make your reflexes faster and your healing accelerated. No disproportional strength, probably because the formula was diluted. And we know you’re aging because no offense or anything, but you definitely don’t look the way you did when you were taken the first time. The panic attacks were a side effect of the—“

“I know. He explained that bit. What about the…being able to remember all of a sudden?”

Tony ran his hands through his hair, let out a sigh.

“We don’t know. The formula was almost done stabilizing, so that might be part of it. But if you want my guess? It’s because you were getting better. Better at dealing with the PTSD, better at getting your brain to differentiate between life-threatening situations and simply annoying ones. The programming wasn’t kicking in all the way because on some level, you started to believe you could deal with things.”

Sophie laughed, a broken, brittle thing. “Just when I think I’m getting better…”

She stared at her hands for a moment, plucking at the blanket.

“This…formula thing. It’s to make people like Tasha? Or Steve, or Khan, or whatever. Make people…better. At certain things.”

Tony nodded, unsure of where this was going. Sophie tilted her head up at him, hair hanging over her face.

“Any chance you could reverse it?”

The look on Tony’s face as he started to apologize told her all she needed to know.

* * *

 

That evening, Steve walked into Sophie’s room after a food run to find her curled up hugging her knees, resting her face on top of them and staring out the window. He paused, unable to see her face, unsure of what she was thinking.

“Sophia?”

She didn’t move.

“I killed him,” she said.

Steve stopped altogether, suddenly at a total loss at her quiet words.

“Sophia…” he started. He had no idea what to say. “It’s not—“

“My fault?” she said. “You always were a bad liar.”

He tried to gather his thoughts, form words. He opened his mouth, and she turned to look at him, her expression strangely empty.

“Please go away.”

She turned her head back to the window without waiting for a response. He stared at her for a moment and then left.

 

Sophie woke the next morning to see Natasha sitting on the end of her bed. The spy held out a _latte caldo_ sprinkled with cocoa powder. Sophie took it.

“Have you come to absolve me of responsibility of my crimes too?”

“Do you need me to?”

Sophie took a drink.

“I killed someone.”

Natasha shrugged.

“He deserved it.”

“Doesn’t make it right.”

The side of Natasha’s mouth quirked up in a small smile.

“You Americans, always with your moral judgments. Who decides what right is?”

Sophie said nothing, just took another sip.

“So, Steve’s kind of an idiot,” said the spy. Sophie raised an eyebrow. “He has no idea how to deal with this, how to help a civilian deal with a kill. Soldiers come with a whole different mindset, where there are no room for questions of morality, where you kill because the other guy is trying to kill you. He’s sure, in his mind, that all his kills are justified, and he’s never had to be judge and executioner.

“And Clint…Clint is much the same way. He’s made the calls, yeah, but he’s sure of them. Except for that whole Loki thing, but we don’t want that can of worms opened again. Thor has been a warrior his whole life, and your cousin is sociopathic enough that taking people out isn’t a problem for him, making that decision is never an issue. And Bruce has no idea how to cope with the damage the Hulk did, besides essentially becoming a Vulcan.”

“Which leaves you,” said Sophie.

“Which leaves me,” agreed Natasha.

“Because you know so much about how civilians cope.”

Natasha regarded Sophie levelly for a moment.

“I made my first kill when I was twelve,” she said, at last, looking out the window. “They brought me to a room, and there was a man inside, and they told me to deal with him. They used food as a motivator then, an unsophisticated system of reward and punishment. If we did well, we were fed. If we disobeyed, we weren’t. So I knew if I didn’t kill this man, I wouldn’t eat, and I was hungry.

“I have no idea who he was. I have no idea what he had done. I did not wonder if what I was doing was right or wrong, if he deserved to die or not. Moral judgments are a luxury for those who are not starving. So I killed him, and that night I had cake.”

She paused, staring at the leaves rustling in a passing breeze.

“They told me it was my birthday, but I have no idea what the date was.”

Sophie stared at her. She had known, generally, that Natasha had defected from the Russians, that she had been in some secret training program where they did unethical things with science, but the spy never talked about her life before SHIELD, never talked about what she’d gone through. Natasha turned and fixed Sophie with her clear gaze.

“So no, I have no idea how civilians cope. I have never been a civilian. But I know this: Right and wrong are not fixed points, they can be defined and redefined like anything else in human experience. The only thing that matters is that you find a way to be at peace with your decision to pull that trigger. Whether it was the right thing to do, whether you regret it or celebrate it, you have to make your peace with it, because it’s already done, and feeling guilty about things you cannot change never does anyone favors.”

Sophie was quiet for a moment, turning her cup round and round in her hands.

“Would you have killed him?” she asked.

“After what he did to you? And all those other people? Yes. And I wouldn’t have even given him the courtesy of knowing who was killing him. Some people just need to die. And there is not a person on this team, or a field agent at SHIELD who would disagree with me. We all would’ve taken the shot.”

Sophie nodded, still staring at her milk.

“He told me, right before I did, that I couldn’t kill him, or it would make me the same as he was. That if I killed him, I would be no better than he was.”

“Do you believe him?”

Sophie thought for a moment.

“No,” she said, slowly. “He was a sadistic bastard who hurt people for fun. I didn’t think it was fun. I did it because I thought it needed to be done. I don’t even know if I did it for revenge, I think I might’ve done it just so he wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone again…pretty sure he was just trying to fuck with my head.”

She looked up, met Natasha’s eyes for the first time.

“I don’t regret it. But I feel like I should.”

Natasha smiled.

“Hang on to that feeling. It means you’re still more human than I am.”

Sophie felt her eyes unexpectedly fill with tears, the words like absolution, a benediction she hadn’t wanted and didn’t know she needed. Natasha’s expression changed, softened, filled with an empathy only two other people in the world had ever seen. She reached out and pulled Sophie into her arms.

Sophie closed her eyes and wept.

* * *

 

Three cracked ribs, a fractured ulna, sprained ankle, various small bones broken in hands and feet, a surprisingly small amount of internal damage, and a week after, all that was left was an awful lot of bruises.

Sophie poked one and made a face at the mirror. The bruises always seemed to be the last to heal. She wondered if it was because the formula was designed to deal with the injuries that actually mattered first. Or maybe it was just her ridiculously pale skin.

She sighed. She would’ve gladly worn the finger splints for a few more days if it meant she could stop looking like she got in a fight with a weedwhacker. Steve never bruised. Trust her to get the short end of that stick.

She pressed another bruise, a deep purple one dragging along her collarbone and wondered how she’d gotten it. She had told Tony she remembered everything, and she hadn’t been lying, not really. She remembered fighting as they’d come in and tried to grab her, half her brain trying to respond to a shouted trigger word and the other half in too much panic to even process language. Remembered a sting as they worked out their programming wasn’t working, and then descending into dizzy blackness. Remembered waking up in a plane, her body strangely docile while her mind recognized the brown eyes looking down at her, and realizing what those eyes meant. Remembered trying, then, to scream.

But she remembered it mostly as a blur, or as if she were watching a movie through an inch wide tube, disjointed flashes, bits that didn’t quite match up.

Until she’d taken the gun.

She still couldn’t quite believe the arrogance of those two, to let her take the gun. Really, with that much hubris they were pretty much asking for it.

She hadn’t killed Absalom when she’d hit him. Tony had told her that he was in custody, arrested and awaiting trial for kidnapping, false imprisonment and general crimes against humanity. A very public trial, because one of the first things Tony had done was send Pepper some footage and have her give a press conference. There was no way SHIELD could hide this one from the world, especially after Steve had given the media a soundbite about how the Avengers were building towards a world based on accountability from all parties, and how “Justice has to be seen to be done.”

Sophie found that adorable coming from a man who, a few weeks ago, was threatening to tear out someone’s heart and shove it down their throat.

She had killed Jasper. Everyone kept calling him Abbitelli, and it always took her a second to figure out who they meant. He’d only ever been Jasper to her, since that night in the club when he introduced himself and then drugged her and taken her away all those years ago.

And now he was dead. She knew, technically, what she’d done was murder, but she also knew that no matter how that fight had ended, he was going to die.

Two bullets to the chest seemed kinder than leaving him to Steve or Thor’s rage, or Natasha and Clint’s more patient and inventive methods.

Plus she figured if anyone had the right to kill him, it was her.

It was weird, really, she kept poking at that memory, expecting it to hurt, expecting that horror and self-loathing would reach up and overwhelm her, expecting that any moment, any second, she would just break down and not be able to get up again.

But she felt…fine. Or as fine as she ever got.

She’d told as much to Natasha, who had said “Sometimes the only way we learn monsters can die is by killing them. You found your peace. Don’t overthink it.”

A movement  in the mirror made her look up to meet blue eyes. She turned around.

“Hey,” said Steve. “How’re you doing?”

Sophie considered.

“Ok, I guess. I talked to Clint.”

Clint and Thor were still dealing with the rescue mission for the rest of the test subjects. Tony had gone too, on the basis that it was his island they were ending up at, but really so that he could get more footage to release, to make sure SHIELD didn’t cover any of this mess up.

“How’s the mission going?”

“Fine. But he pouted at me for abandoning him to join the metahumans. At this rate, he’s gonna be the only human left in our weird little club. Poor guy.”

Steve frowned. Sophie idly wondered how he managed to find horrible plaid shirts in the middle of nowhere in the Italian Alps.

“That’s not true.”

“Well, I guess there’s Jane now. And Darcy. And theoretically Tony, but I don’t think he’s ever been human.”

“You’re still human,” said Steve, his frown deepening. “You’re just as human as I am.”

“Says the genetically engineered super soldier,” said Sophie. “They played pin the tail on the donkey with my DNA.”

“It’s not your DNA that defines your humanity—“ started Steve, clearly gearing up for a patented Captain America Inspirational Lecture.

“Pretty sure DNA is exactly what makes you human, rather than, say, a chimpanzee,” Sophie said. “Humans and chimps share like ninety-five percent of our DNA, did you know that? We also share twenty-five percent with bananas.”

Steve opened and closed his mouth a few times, derailed.

“I like bananas,” he said, eventually. He studied her for a moment. “This is actually bugging you, isn’t it? Out of all the things that happened, this is the one thing you don’t know how to deal with.”

Sophie folded her arms around herself.

“Tony and Bruce say they can’t fix it. Or that they could try, but they don’t know what would happen, and it could end...badly.”

She paused, looking for words.

“It’s just…I was so normal. Before. And these past few years all I’ve wanted was to get back to that, to get better, to get back to normal. And now I never will. And this thing they put in me, it was made by evil people who wanted to sell it to people who would do evil things and…I just…”

“Ok, so maybe you’re not normal anymore,” said Steve. “And maybe you’re not however you define human, either. But one thing you should’ve learned by hanging around us metahumans and demigods and what have you is that a lack of normality, or your DNA, or your non-human-ness…none of that says a damn thing about your ability to be a good person. A very wise man once said that it is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities, and so far since they rewrote your DNA, you have chosen to go into a service profession, developed an artificial intelligence, started a Storytime with Superheroes program at hospitals and libraries in underserved urban areas and started putting together an awareness campaign to help destigmatize mental illness, the face of which is Tony Stark. So I’m pretty sure that whatever you think you are, you’re one of the good ones.”

Sophie stared at him for a while.

“Did you seriously just quote Harry Potter in a Captain America Inspirational Lecture?”

“…Maybe…”

Sophie started to smile. “You did. You actually did. Captain America just quoted Harry Potter at me. Oh my god.”

Steve grinned at her.

“Dumbledore knew his shit.”

Sophie’s laugh was the best thing Steve had heard in a long, long while.

* * *

 

The next day, Sophie was looking sadly at the meager selection of clothing Natasha had procured for her over the last week or so.

“Tell me, do I wear the black t-shirt, the black-t-shirt, or the black sweater?”

Steve leaned against the doorframe.

“We could go home,” he said.

Sophie turned on her heels to give him a surprised look.

“I’m just saying,” he continued. “I mean, I’m willing to keep hiding in the Alps or run away to Tony’s island, or whatever you want to do. But all your clothes are at home.”

Sophie blew out a breath.

“I…I don’t think I’m ready for that yet. I don’t think I can deal with…any of it. The media. The library. Minerva. My apartment, oh god, they totally destroyed my apartment, didn’t they.”

She sat down abruptly on the bed, looking panicked and Steve quickly came to stand in front of her.

“Breathe,” he said. His hand hovered uncertainly above her shoulder, not sure how she would take being touched. She reached up to grab it and pull him down to sit beside her, letting her forehead drop onto his chest.

“It’ll be ok,” he said. “I’m sure it’s already been dealt with, Tony has armies of people for this stuff.”

Sophie shot up. “Oh god, no, that’s even worse. They’ll totally fuck up my shelving system.”

Steve chuckled. “Really? That’s what worries you about going back? Your shelving system?”

Sophie’s thought for a minute, experimentally poking at her most recent memories of her home.

It didn’t really feel like home anymore. Home was where you felt safe.

“Yeah, no, I don’t think I ever want to see that apartment again, actually,” she said. “Maybe I’ll get someone to box it all up and rent somewhere away from the Tony Stark Superhero Hostel.”

“You could have them box it up and drop it off at my place,” said Steve, before his brain caught up with his mouth.

Sophie straightened up and looked at him.

“Huh?”

“Just throwing it out there,” he said.

“…Did you just ask me to move in with you?”

“Um. Yes?”

“Oh.” Sophie thought for a second. “Your place isn’t nearly big enough for all my stuff.”

“So we’ll make Tony knock out a couple walls,” said Steve, shrugging. “I think technically the whole floor is mine anyway. The renovations’ll take a couple weeks at least, so that’ll give you more time to get ready for…everything. Or it’ll all die down. Either way.”

“Kay,” said Sophie. She looked at him with an oddly calculating expression for a moment, and then leaned forward to press her lips to his. His hand came up to rest on her neck, the other on her waist. After a moment, she drew back.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he said back. “So is that a yes?”

“Yeah,” she said. She moved closer so he could wrap an arm around her. “So I guess we’ve got a couple weeks to kill, then…got any ideas?”

“You know…” he said, slowly. “The last time I was in Europe, I didn’t get to see much of the countryside…I heard it’s changed a lot since they kicked out all those Nazis…”

Sophie grinned. “I’ll make a couple phone calls.”

 

The next day, the small amount of belongings they had were packed into two small duffle bags, there was a car idling five feet away in the drive, and Natasha handed them two wallets full of international credit cards and Euros, and two passports.

Steve flipped them open with Sophie looking over his arm.

“They’ve made you Danish,” he said. Sophie blinked at him.

“Jeg _er_ Dansk.” She looked at his passport and snorted. “Roger Stevens. Cute. I’m so calling you Rog.”

“Ugh.”

“You met while Sophie was studying abroad at Columbia for grad school. Whirlwind romance, got serious fast, she’s taking you around Europe for the holidays, meet the family, etc,” said Natasha. She regarded them for a moment.

“I’m flying the jet home tonight, Bruce has decided to wander off to Switzerland for some conference, and Tony says to look at the paint chips he sent to your phone. Stay safe. Try not to blow anything up.”

Steve chucked their bags in the backseat as Sophie hugged the spy.

“Thanks, Tash. See you in a couple weeks.”

They slid into the car and Sophie headed out onto the road.

“Where are we going?” asked Steve, still wondering why Sophie was the one driving. He had plenty of experience with driving in Europe. The fact that it was mostly with tanks was irrelevant.

Sophie side-eyed him.

“Shopping. Rog needs some horribly preppy crewneck sweaters.”


	24. Chapter 24

They spent a few days in Milan, where Sophie assembled wardrobes for the wealthy Ivy League students they never were and Steve had never really wanted to be.

“Why couldn’t they have made me an art student?” he asked, pulling on a sweater. “I know how to be an art student.”

“No you don’t,” said Sophie, handing him a coat. “Now it’s all photoshop and ironic plaid shirts.”

“I like plaid.”

“Yes, dear, that’s rather the problem.” She smoothed his collar and turned him around. “There.”

Black peacoat, navy blue hooded sweater, jeans and…he looked like a good third of the population between Morningside and Riverside. He looked at Sophie, who was wearing contacts and kind of a toned down and slightly classed up version of Darcy-wear and looked almost exactly nothing like herself.

“Has Natasha been giving you lessons in urban camouflage?”

Sophie snorted.

“Before I came along, Tasha’s idea of blending in was either a monochromatic collection of button-ups or a distracting amount of cleavage.”

Steve turned his eyes back to his reflection.

“This is weird.”

Sophie grinned.

“If by weird you mean awesome, then yes. C’mon, let’s go play tourists and count the number of people who try to pick our pockets.”

* * *

 

They wandered around Italy for a while, going from Milan to Florence to see the art, sitting in tiny cafes while Steve sketched the architecture and Sophie ate a truly stupid amount of pastries. They spent a day or so in Orvieto, Sophie buying exquisite pottery because “I bet those bastards broke all my plates” and Steve dragging her to see an opera in an unassuming theater which turned out to be one of the most beautiful buildings either of them had ever been in. They both spent the entire opera staring at the paintings instead of at the stage, and didn’t regret a minute of it.

They ambled onto Rome just before Christmas, and went to mass at St. Peter’s on Christmas Eve, which even Sophie had to admit held a special kind of magic, if only because of look on Steve’s face as he felt somehow both invisible and connected to everyone, just another small piece of humanity reaching out for God the best way he could.

If Sophie noticed a wet glimmer on his cheeks, she said nothing, but squeezed his gloved hand and pretended to know when to mumble along.

They spent Christmas Day holed up in their little vacation apartment. Steve read some terrible suspense spy novel while Sophie roasted a duck and made batch after batch of cookies.

He glanced up at her once and wished he had a pencil and paper because he wanted to remember her like this forever. She was wearing a truly tacky apron that proclaimed “That’s Amore!” over her pink pajamas, forehead smudged with cocoa from an attempt to push back her hair and wrinkled with concentration as she tried to make sense of the badly translated recipe.

He chuckled and she looked up at him, narrowing her eyes.

“What?”

“Nothing. I was just remembering Tony’s damn Christmas party last year. What was it you said? Someday you’d like a Christmas where you don’t have to go anywhere or do anything or pose for any pictures or wear some stupid ballgown?”

Sophie looked down at herself.

“Achievement unlocked!” she said, raising her spoon in victory.

“Shame about the no pictures rule,” he said. “That apron looks fantastic combined with those pants.”

Sophie cocked her hip with a twinkle in her eyes.                                                                                                            

“Oh I can still pose for pictures. You know. If you want.”

Steve smiled that crooked smile that always made her breath catch and got up to pull her towards the bedroom.

Turns out the apron was a lot less horrible without the pajamas underneath it.

 

Much later, when they emerged to rescue the duck, Steve eyed the cookies spread out over every available surface.

“Did you have a plan for all these?”

Sophie set the duck down and looked around.

“Umm…”

 

A few days later they ditched their rental car and took a train, because Steve liked trains, north to Austria, because “there’s really no reason to go to Denmark besides inflicting a brother or two on you, it’s not like mom’s even there, she hates the winters. I think she’s in Tahiti this year? Also, Austria has more castles.”

They spent New Year’s Eve on the balcony of their hotel in Vienna, watching the fireworks above and the festivities below.

“This is awesome,” said Sophie. “We’re gonna have fireworks on our anniversary every year.”

There was a knock at the door and Steve got up to collect their room service order.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked as he came back holding two mugs to find her staring down at the merry makers contemplatively. She’d felt guilty earlier that she wasn’t up for the crowds in the square.

“I was thinking…if we went and got our gloves, we could start chucking snowballs down at people.”

Steve snorted.

“Here, I got you cocoa.”

She turned, making joyful grabby hands.

“You are a god among men,” she said, sticking her nose in the steam and inhaling deeply. “Marry me.”

Steve stared at her for a second, mug raised halfway to his lips.

“Yeah, alright,” he said. “If you want.”

She looked up at him over the rim of her mug.

“What, really?”

Steve shrugged. “I was gonna wait a while longer to talk to you about it, but…if you’re asking. If you’re not, that’s fine, I’m planning on sticking around as long as you will let me.”

Sophie frowned at him.

“You know, what happened these past few weeks, what we found out, what I…did. It probably won’t change my brain. I might be this way forever.”

“I know,” he said.

“And I don’t want kids,” she said. “What with…everything. Hell, I don’t even know if I can have kids. Or what they’d turn out to be if I could have them.”

Steve nodded.

“With our lives, with what I do, it wouldn’t be fair to a kid anyway. And I never really expected to have kids before, with my health and all.”

Sophie stared at him, and he looked back at her, mug still halfway to his mouth, hair lighting up in the fireworks, snowflakes falling all around them, catching in the lashes of his impossibly blue eyes.

“Huh,” she said, frown giving way to a look of fond and incredulous amusement. “So it’s a yes, then?”

Steve smiled.

“Yes.”

Sophie took a drink.

“Cool.”

They watched the fireworks some more, sipping their cocoa with their free hands intertwined.

A while later, a group of very drunk and very confused Australians were shaking snow out of their hair as laughter rang out from the balconies above them.

* * *

 

After Vienna, Sophie got her castles. They ended up in Salzburg after a while, and were poking around in antique shops, mostly looking for decorating ideas for their new place, when Steve saw it.

“Hey Sophia?”

“Yeah?”

“Come take a look at this.”

She came over and looked.

“Huh.”

The shopkeeper, his impending sale sense tingling, wandered over behind the counter.

“Would the lady like to try it on?” he asked, in lightly accented English.

“I think she would,” said Steve, watching Sophie’s face. The man took it out and Sophie slipped it on, tilting her head critically.

The slim platinum band was set with little round and rectangular diamonds, and settled on Sophie’s finger like it belonged there. It wasn’t flashy, didn’t yell about money and status and power, didn’t draw attention. It was small and subtle, and sparkled in the light just enough to make a very definite statement to anyone who cared to look.

“Yeah?” asked Steve.

Sophie looked at him, eyes alight. “Yeah.”

Steve handed over Roger Steven’s credit card with nary a thought, since it was either Tony’s money or SHIELD’s and neither were likely to care or probably even notice.

“Would you like it wrapped?” asked the shopkeeper. Steve glanced at Sophie, who was still staring at the ring like a magpie.

“No, I think she’ll wear it,” said Steve, trying not to laugh. The man looked between them, somehow both very shrewd and very kind.

“Congratulations. May you make each other happy.”

They looked at each other.

“I think we already do,” said Sophie. Steve nodded, and thanked the man before they headed back out to the street.

Tony called them that night to show them the progress on their apartment, which at this point was less of an apartment and more of a whole floor. They oohed and aahed in all the appropriate places and then hollered for Pepper as Tony flopped down on the couch in the common area and started threatening to pick out their furniture if they didn’t come home soon.

“What’s wrong with my taste in furniture? No one else complained when I picked out their furniture. Clint’s very happy with his nest bed, I don’t see—“

“Tony, last week you tried to convince me that building a bed out of the body of a ’58 Camaro was a good idea because, and I quote, ‘vroom, vroom, racecar bed’,” they heard Pepper say. “Don’t worry, I would never—“ she continued as she appeared onscreen. Sophie gave her a little wave. Pepper stopped midsentence and her eyes narrowed.

“You’re wearing a ring.”

Tony popped back up on the screen.

“Wait, what? A ring? Like, a ring ring?”

Both Steve and Sophie turned to stare at her hand like they’d never seen it before.

“Oh my god, so I am!” said Sophie.

“Don’t be a smartass,” said Tony.

“Why should you have all the fun?” asked Steve.

Tony opened his mouth and Pepper covered it with her hand.

“Is this—I mean, are you—“

Tony licked her hand and she took it away from his mouth with a look of disgust.

“They’re getting married!” Tony hollered over his shoulder.

“I know,” said Natasha as she floated past. Tony deflated.

“Should we tell him I texted her already?” Sophie whispered. Steve shook his head, grinning.

“This is more fun.”

“Congratulations,” said Pepper. “Should we tell everyone else, or—“

“Screw you guys, I’m telling everyone and throwing you a party when you get back. I don’t care what you think.”

Steve opened his mouth but Sophie just rolled her eyes.

“Just let him. It’ll prevent him from building us a bed out of a boat or something.”

Steve conceded.

“Nothing big,” he said.

“When are you coming home?” asked Pepper.

“Probably about a week,” said Sophie, taking Steve’s hand. He squeezed it, trying to be reassuring.

“Your place’ll be done by then,” said Tony. “Everything from Sophie’s is already boxed and ready to be moved. And before you start, I know, I won’t try to shelve your books.”

After Tony hung up, Steve and Sophie looked at each other.

“That was easy,” said Steve.

“Mm,” said Sophie, Tony’s threats of furniture and parties still ringing in her ears. “Where to next?”

Steve leaned back on the couch.

“France?”

Sophie curled up next to him and he tucked an arm around her.

“France sounds good. They have nice pastries.”

 

Two weeks later, after France and side trip to Spain, and then Portugal, because really, how are you going to pass up the Azores, they climbed out of Tony’s plane to find a limo waiting on the tarmac for them.

Tony popped out and ushered them inside to find their whole weird family waiting for them.

“Felicitations!” boomed Thor, Jane perched on his knee. Bruce winced next to him. Clint grinned and Natasha’s mouth quirked up in half a smile. Pepper handed Sophie a glass of champagne.

“I couldn’t stop him from buying a living room set. I’m sorry. At least it’s not the patriotically colored plaid one.”


	25. Chapter 25

Steve scooped up the paper on his way in from his run, unfolding it to see what damage the new day has brought.

CAPTAIN AMERICA’S SECRET ELOPEMENT! it yelled up at him.

He snorted and laid it down on the counter in their kitchenette, skimming it as he assembled his post-workout snack.

“The nation’s most eligible bachelor is single no longer! Captain America married Iron Man’s cousin yesterday in a surprise ceremony at city hall. Sophia Carbonell, head librarian of the Stark Collection and organizer of the popular Storytime with Superheroes program, has been romantically linked to various members of The Avengers over the past two years, including Hawkeye, Bruce Banner and even infamous femme fatale Black Widow, but Iron Man informs the Bugle that the former Miss Carbonell has in fact been dating the good Captain since last January, and all the other rumors are false.

‘Most of those rumors we started ourselves,’ said Mr. Stark in an official statement. ‘Not gonna lie, we just really like messing with you guys’.”

Steve lost interest in the rest of the article, which alternately bemoaned that he was off the market, spun their relationship as a superhero flavored fairy tale, and even brought up Sophie’s “wild past” and kidnapping, which Steve thought was rather graceless. He supposed it was only a matter of time before some jerk brought up her time in the psych treatment facilities, and wondered if they should bring it up before anyone else got a chance to, especially since the Stark Silver Ribbon campaign was going so well. And then he kind of hated himself for thinking about PR on his honeymoon.

He flipped back to the front page, studying the photo. Pepper had worked out some deal with The Daily Bugle where they had a photographer at the ceremony, a statement from Tony yesterday and an exclusive interview with Steve and Sophie today, complete with more pictures, which would run tomorrow, providing they ran nothing until the day after the wedding.

Steve wandered into the dining room, where Sophie was sitting, talking on the phone and idly flicking through something on her tablet.

“Yes, Mom. No. No. Mom, would you just—“

He dropped a kiss on her head and the paper in front of her. She read the headline, snorted, and handed him her tablet.

“Mom, as much as I know you would love to blame Tony for this, I can’t—“

He glanced at the screen and realized what it was. The kid from the Bugle—Peter?—had come with the journalist to take more pictures with the interview that morning, and before he left, he’d handed Sophie a thumbdrive.

“I figured you might want these,” he had said, his words rushed. “It’s, um, everything I took yesterday. They’re not edited, I just did a quick run through to try and take out the ones with weird faces or where someone’s blinking or whatever, but I didn’t see any other photographers, and I thought you might like some of the more candid ones.”

“Thanks,” Steve had said. “That’s really kind of you.”

The kid had blushed and opened his mouth as if to say something, but the reporter had called him over and he bolted.

Steve had shaken his head at the picture in the Bugle, one of him and Sophie on some steps in city hall, flanked by Natasha, Clint and Pepper on Sophie’s side, and Tony, Bruce and Thor on Steve’s. Sophie looked stunning, in a white pencil dress and silver t-straps, a blue rose in her hair. Steve looked…more than a little bit of an idiot, but that probably couldn’t be helped. At least he’d escaped from wearing his costume, instead dressed in his old olive green army uniform, which Tony had said he’d found buried in storage somewhere, but Steve secretly suspected had been recreated, just so the pictures would look Captain America-y. It looked like a promo shot from a movie, something posed and glittery and not altogether honest.

Now, as Steve flicked through them, he saw why someone so young was getting gigs photographing Captain America’s wedding. The guy had talent, an eye for catching moments that said infinitely more about people than any posed photo ever could.

Tony looking at Pepper like she was the best thing in the world as she laughed at one of Bruce’s dry jokes. Clint and Natasha, looking sideways at each other, only Steve’s close knowledge of their body language letting him know what that look meant for both of them. Thor and Jane from the back, Jane leaning her head on his arm as he looked down at her fondly. Darcy looking flabbergasted when something she’d said made Phil throw back his head and laugh.

A picture of the two of them right after the ceremony in black and white, when they were all getting situated for the group pictures, Sophie laughing up at him as he grinned dopily down at her after he made some crack about her silver shoes and clicking her heels, proud as ever when it made her laugh. With her dress and the way she’d done her hair, all waves and curls, and his army uniform…it had an almost timeless quality, almost a wedding like a thousand other wartime weddings, and for some reason that made him smile.

A close up of the wedding rings before the ceremony, Sophie’s an unassuming art deco band with a wheat motif and Steve’s gold with an almost invisible claddagh etched on the outside. He couldn’t really make out the inner engravings from the picture, but he knew them anyway. He’d stolen Sophie’s ring a week before the wedding, and put it back a day later, without her even noticing until she’d picked it up to try it on for the umpteenth time—his girl loved her shiny things.

She’d plunked it down in front of him, eyes narrowed. He blinked up at her innocently.

“What is this, Elvish? Because that would be nerdy even for you, Steve.”

He contrived to look offended.

“It’s Irish,” he said. Her expression softened, because he didn’t bring up the Irish thing much, but when he did, it clearly meant something. She picked up the ring, tracing over the words with a fingertip.

“ _Mian mo chroi_ ,” he said, quietly. She looked up at him, their eyes meeting. He smiled, soft and just a little bit helpless, so in love with her it almost hurt. “My heart’s desire.”

He watched as she caught the meaning—that he wanted her, no one but her, no matter how broken she ever felt. She said nothing, just leaned down to kiss him, but the morning of their wedding he grabbed their rings and noticed something new on his.

Engraved on the inside, right under the heart of the claddagh, was the word _yes_.

He glanced over at her now, still on the phone with her mother, trying to explain why she’d wanted a quiet civil ceremony instead of some massive blowout party and not getting very far. He dragged the last two pictures up side by side, typed a little note that said “We should print out these two and get them framed” and got up to set the tablet back in front of Sophie.

She looked up at him and nodded, saying into the phone “Well, you can plan the giant reception all you want, as long as you don’t actually expect either of us there.”

There was an indignant squawking on the other end and Sophie covered the mic.

“Sorry. Mom’s kind of freaking out about this. I guess she always dreamed of having her little girl have some massive poufy fairy tale thing. I thought I’d be done by now.”

“Have you been talking to her the whole time I’ve been gone?”

Sophie nodded, rolling her eyes. “Because there’s really nothing I’d rather be doing for the precious few days I get with my husband in a romantic B&B in the Catskills before the oncoming media shitstorm than try to keep my mother from having a conniption fit.”

Steve’s mouth quirked, because there were several things he’d rather be doing, ranging from lunch, to swimming, because it was stupidly hot for June, to Sophie herself. He reached over and plucked the phone from her hand.

“Mrs. Carbonell? This is Steve Rogers.”

Sophie heard the squawking stop.

“Yes, I know it seems rather sudden, but your daughter is an adult, and a very intelligent one too. You did an excellent job raising her, by the way.”

Sophie heard her mother say something else, but there was significantly less squawking.

“I’m afraid the decision to keep it under wraps was my fault. I’m not very comfortable with large events, and Sophia was sweet enough to compromise. I’m a very lucky man.”

Sophie stared. Steve winked at her.

“I am sorry. I know you wanted something different for Sophie, what mother wouldn’t want to show off a daughter like her? I’m just too shy, and I get enough of that kind of thing in my work life, I’m sure you can understand,” he said, his voice radiating sincerity and the apologetic aw-shucks thing that for some reason made older women pat his cheek and call him sweetie.

And apparently worked on her mother.

“Of course we’d love to come out soon to meet everyone. Sophie’s told me so much about her family. Yes, I’ll tell her. I look forward to meeting you in person. Thank you, ma’am, you too.”

Steve hung up and gave Sophie back her phone.

“Your mother says she loves you. And I bet you twenty bucks the next time she calls, it’ll be to invite you to a family reunion so she can show off your new husband because he’s such a sweet boy, so polite, and she doesn’t want to overwhelm him by throwing a party for the both of us.”

Sophie stared some more.

“…how..?”

Steve grinned, flicking his fingers out in bad salute.

“Steven Rogers, tactical genius, at your service.”

Sophie shook her head.

“You are a devious, devious man,” she said.

“You love me for it,” he countered. She just smiled and shook her head again.

“Well, Captain Rogers,” she said, regarding him over the tops of her purple glasses.

“Well, Miss Carbonell?”

“Now what?”

He stood up and pulled her into his arms.

“Now I think this is the part where I take you upstairs and show you just how devious I can be.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck as he picked up and set off for their room.

“And just how devious is that, exactly?”

“Very,” he said, nudging open their door and laying down on their bed, stretching out beside her. “But I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

She grinned up at him, green eyes lit with mischief and desire. “You promise, huh?”

“Oh yes,” he said, skimming her side with one hand. She leaned into his touch. “And I keep my promises.”

“I know,” she said, pulling him down for a kiss. “You always do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is it, lovely people. Thank you so much for sticking with me til the end, it's been a helluva ride. Thank you for all your kudos and comments and views. I am so very glad if you enjoyed yourselves.
> 
> Also, yes, Spider-man took pictures of Captain America's wedding. I had throw Peter in there somewhere because he's an adorable snarky awkward bastard and I love him.
> 
> But anyway. 'Til next time, dear readers! <3


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